If He'd Gotten the Job
by iviscrit
Summary: An AU in which Voldy gets the job and is his gloriously egotistical self. If I can write it effectively. Please R&R! NEW CHAPTER: "Next Time, We're Doing it in My Room"
1. Prologue

**A/N: Just a tidbit of info: In this story, Voldy returns after a few years, per Dippet's suggestion, since he knows Dippet is his best bet back to Hogwarts. He gets the job, and...**

1951

"Well, I'm certainly pleased you've agreed to hire me this time, Professor," Riddle said, smiling broadly as he exchanged a handshake with Armando Dippet.

"Believe me, Tom, the pleasure is all mine," the headmaster replied. "Welcome back to Hogwarts."

The office door opened, admitting a tall figure in flamboyant plum robes with graying auburn hair, a sheaf of papers in his hands.

"Armando, I've brought the last of the applications for..." Albus Dumbledore's voice trailed off as he registered Riddle's presence. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had company. Hello, Tom."

"Hello, Professor," Riddle said, unable to keep the corners of his mouth from tilting upwards despite his familiar feeling of annoyance around Dumbledore. "No interruption at all, I assure you."

Dippet turned, happily looking from one man to the other, oblivious to the reigned-in animosity from one and the benign suspicion from the other. "No need to give me more applications, Albus, I've made my decision," Dippet said smiling. "You're looking at our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Our youngest yet, I might add," he clarified.

"Indeed? Welcome to the staff, Tom," Dumbledore said. Riddle inclined his head, smile broadening. He was aware, however, of the irritating fact that Dumbledore used his name far more than was necessary. He was sure Dumbledore was conscious of this; the Legilimens had a disturbing knack for recognizing Riddle's thoughts. **Something to take note of, but not unduly worrying,** he thought.

With that, Riddle returned to his apartment in Knockturn Alley, and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry reverted back to the everyday happenings of the summer before school's reopening. Dormitories were cleaned, syllabi were constructed, and anticipatory children received fat parchment envelopes containing school supply lists and necessary information.

The new school year began as planned, with a welcoming speech from Dippet and a chorus of voices, the prepubescent, the embarrasingly warped, the matured, and those precious few melodious voices that stuck out among the din joined together in a most un-melodious manner in the Hogwarts School song. Then the moment struck when the Headmaster must introduce the new member of staff for the year.

"Welcome, all of you, to another year at Hogwarts," Dippet said, a benevolent smile in place and arms outstretched, as if he wished to personally welcome each and every one. "Before we begin the feast, I would like to introduce your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, who some of you older students may remember from your first year days. Please help me welcome Professor Tom Riddle."

The applause, though not really deafening, was enthusiastic enough, Riddle thought appraisingly. He cast his eyes around the room, briefly stopping upon familiar faces like Abraxas Malfoy's, now a seventh year, and the like. He rose. "Just because a fair amount of you seventh years may know me on a first name basis," he said, his charming facade firmly fixed in place, "I still expect you to address me as 'Professor'. Humor me." He sat as the applause increased in volume and intensity. He found this response most satisfactory to his overlarge ego. For the time being, this would do.

"Thank you, Tom," Dippet said, smiling fondly at the alum. "I have just one more thing to say. I have enjoyed serving as the headmaster of Hogwarts for half a century. It is with regret that I inform you of my impending retirement. I will not be returning next year." Whispers and dejected sighs flitted across the Great Hall.

"However, I will be succeeded by Professor Dumbledore, who I have every confidence in; he will surely uphold the traditions and the standards of excellence Hogwarts is so well known for." The applause resumed and Dumbledore politely raised a hand, eyes twinkling, as if to brush it away. He cast a stealthy glance in Riddle's direction, and witnessed, to no great surprise, a look of abject shock, which Riddle quickly returned to his usual impassive expression under scrutiny.

"Without further ado, let the feast begin!" Dippet announced, and the tables filled.

**Apparently, Dippet retired no earlier than 1951 and no later than 1955, so I think it's safe to assume this would be his last year. **


	2. The SoCalled Unforgivables

Inspired by a delightful piece of fanart, link to follow

**CHAPTER 1**

Riddle's first class was a batch of sixth year Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, divided mainly into those eager to learn about the subject (few and far between), those eager to learn about the teacher (he's so gorgeous!), and those eager to learn about the mundane aspects of one another's lives (no, she couldn't have said that!). The trite yet effective cliche of dramatic entry, Riddle decided, must be reexamined and resurrected. It would have the most success in winning over the class' attention, he decided.

The students entered noisily, flinging books onto tables, and themselves into seats, clearly eager to begin the first OWL course of the term. Riddle remembered, almost nostalgically, of those school days, not so very long past. Unlike these immature children, however, he had a fair amount of hands-on practice in the subject of the Dark Arts - he glanced at his ring- that very few, if any, other sixteen-year-olds could boast of.

As he remained concealed in this new office - his office, he reminded himself with a little thrill of joy- mutterings drifted in from the classroom. How could the teacher be late, and on his first day -Lazy, that's not going to look good this soon... if I recall, Riddle was always so..punctual... Oh, you knew him-You would've been a first year-Don't be ridiculous-Yes, I did, the name, anyway, it was on that trophy-He was Head Boy that year...

Without further delay, Riddle flicked his wand, sending the office door flying open perhaps a tad bit theatrically. He crossed the now silent room with a sort of careless stride, stopping at the desk, swinging his cloak off his shoulders dramatically, and directed it, with only an outstretched hand, to a peg near the blackboard. (By this stage, the boys as well as the girls were staring.) A final flick of his wand, and his name -for now, anyway- appeared.

He did so love a good entrance.

"You may put away your books; you will not be needing them today." He smiled inwardly at the instant obedience; the surprised sixth years stowed books under desks and stuffed them away in book bags.

"You will, however-" he added, causing a delightfully instantaneous lull in activity at his words, "-need your wands. Are you familiar with Cornish pixies?" The class nodded. "You are? And how do you like them?" Grimaces. "What if I told you there was a simple way to rid yourselves of the creatures that is both academically oriented and fun?" The class looked confused.

Words appeared on the blackboard: The Unforgivable Curses. The students looked, rather than eager, unnerved and disbelieving, to Riddle's disappointment, but to no great surprise.

"Let's play a game." He released the pixies, and instantly bedlam ensued. The creatures seized papers, flung books into windows and artifacts, and terrorized the students who hadn't taken refuge under the desks. In other words, most of them. "Dispose of them through any means necessary. Any means. I want to see what you're capable of." He jerked his head towards the blackboard and pointed his wand at a pixie. "Imperio!" The pixie seized some of the sharper artifacts in the room and proceeded to terrorize the students, wielding the scimitar like a guilitine blade. "Remember, for your spells to work, you have to really mean them. I would prefer you use nonverbal spells. You get 5 points for each pixie you capture, and ten to the first three who tell me what I've done to this one-" here he gestured to the maniacal pixie- "this one-" using the Cruciatus curse on another, filling the room with a horrible high pitched screaming- "and this one-" killing the third. "And I'll bewitch the others to make the game more...interesting."

He sat on his desk. "You have an hour. Impress me."

The display was rather pitiful, but a few students managed some truly impressive spells, though none attempted an Unforgivable curse. All in good time; there was a whole school year for that. The classroom was a shambles, the students exhausted, and yet only two-thirds of the pixies were recaptured. Riddle raised his wand as the bell rang. "Immobulous!" The pixies froze, suspended in mid-air. "Avada kedavra!" The room filled with a flash of electric green light as he cast the spell. It sounded like rainfall as the pixies hit the desks, the floor, and the students- rainfall in which the droplets were tiny bodies.

"Let's see," he said, walking up and down the aisles of desks, ignoring the aghast faces of some of the students. "I think... sixty points to Hufflepuff, and... eighty-five to Gryffindor...oh, well done by the way," he said, nodding to a boy with six of the pixies captured. "Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong." When there were no objections, he continued. "You are dismissed. Work on nonverbal spells for homework. You'll be asked to partner up in front of the class tomorrow, so if you don't like public humiliation..." He let his words trail off to give them the full effect.

He could get used to this. And he had plenty of time to devote to his research. Who knew corrupting young minds with Dark magic could be so easy?

*I shamelessly copied from HPatCoS. ^^ I just love the idea of a Lockhart-Moody hybrid class, and I think Voldy could pull it off.


	3. But I'm Not Gay

**This was the original oneshot that started this fic, written through facebook chat.**

Riddle was deeply absorbed in _Magicke Moste Evil,_ which he had charmed so that it appeared to be a copy of the latest Madame Malkin's catalogue. He found the looks he received when he was found supposedly reading a copy most amusing. But there were disadvantages...he strongly suspected one of his fourth year students of spreading rumors of his sexual preferences after finding him in his office engrossed in what appeared to be "sheer periwinkle chiffon dress robes (excellent for brides!)." The boy had shown a rather inordinate amount of glee in his supposed discovery. Riddle smiled to himself. Had the boy known he was perusing his own findings on stabilizing magic following the creation of a horcrux, he would be spreading an entirely different kind of rumor.

He was unpleasantly jolted from the recollection when a frazzled-looking, middle-aged wizard entered the staff room. Riddle hardly registered the man's look of shock-or could it be interest?-at his choice of reading material. Riddle was looking instead at the advertisement clutched nervously in his hands.

"Sir, are you an applicant for the post of Transfiguration professor, per chance?" Riddle asked out of politeness, nothing more. Pretenses must be kept up, after all, and the wizard was a potential future co-worker. It was rather premature to be looking so early in the year, but Riddle was well aware of the difficulty associated with finding a decent teacher, especially for the more challenging subjects. Interviews might be going all year, for all he knew. The number of loser applicants was appalling, if this man was any indication. Standards were bound to fall sometime soon.

The man nodded, and to Riddle's amusement, asked, "Are you, also?"

"No, I work here." he replied tersely, and resumed reading. To his annoyance the man sat down beside him.

"What're you reading, then?" he inquired, trying for a friendly smile and tone.

Wordlessly Riddle held up the "catalogue" without looking up. Had he, he would have seen the man's face fall a bit.

"Oh. Shopping for your girlfriend?" the man asked in what was clearly not a casual tone yet intended to be one. Riddle shook his head, eyes not leaving the text.

"Wife, then?" the man prodded.

"No." Riddle was getting seriously annoyed now. Wasn't it obvious that he didn't want to talk?

"Really? Handsome guy like you? No lady?"

Riddle closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "No. Now, as you can see, I am _reading_, so-"

"You know, I look at that catalogue too," the man said, winking. His thin hand began to wander towards Riddle's knee. Riddle found himself tearing his gaze away from his book as the hand slid onto his leg.

"How interesting." He jerked his knee away, clenching his fingers still more tightly into the book, leaving crescent tears in the aged paper, reminding himself over and over to not, not NOT cast a spell that would get him fired...

"How about a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks this weekend? I'd really like to...get to _know_ you."

He winked again, leaning uncomfortably close, his breath a foul medley of firewhiskey and saurkraut. Riddle felt rather violated. The whole scene was repulsive. "I'm Phil-"

The door swung open to admit Minerva McGonagall. Though Riddle hadn't known her very well at Hogwarts, any semblance of familiarity would suffice to get out of _this _situation. Besides, he was fairly sure she had fancied him at the time, so rejection wasn't likely. He really needed to change his supposed reading preferences as well...this sort of thing happened far too often for his liking...

"Minerva! What a delight to see you! Applying for the Transfiguration post?" She had scarcely nodded before he barreled on. "Wonderful. I'm free this weekend, absolutely no plans at all. Care to join me for a butterbeer?"

"Well, yes I suppose, bu-"

"Perfect, it's a date then," he said, thoroughly relieved. He cast a deliberate, triumphant glance at the creepy man, who glowered back. Riddle walked McGonagall to a chair, the very picture of gallantry, all the while hearing the applicant bitterly mumbling. "No girlfriend my ass, reading THAT catalogue... should've known, I've made a damn fool of myself..."

Shortly afterward, the man picked up his cloak and left, muttering incoherently. Until his departure, Riddle was engaging in very animated conversation with McGonagall, but once the applicant left, he fell silent and returned to his book.

"Tom, you can't ask me out randomly and subsequently ignore me without an explanation," McGonagall said with a petulant frown after some minutes passed in silence.

"What?" He looked up. "Sorry, you can't imagine my relief when you walked in. That man was disturbingly forward." Seeing that she was offended, he hastily added, "You don't have to go; asking you was simply a necessity. You are under no obligation-"

McGonagall smiled thinly. "Oh, but I'd **love** to catch up. I've been with the Ministry. Where were you working before you came here to teach? Borgin and Burke's?" The jibe was obvious.

She clearly didn't take kindly to being used as his course of escape, Riddle realized, and he would have to pacify her somehow. McGonagall, though nothing remarkable compared to him, had been the brightest witch of her year and the only one able to hold her own against him in dueling club..perhaps she would be useful in his plans. She would certainly be hired to teach, if Dumbledore was involved in the hiring process, so he may as well start working on her now...

The gears in his brain whirred, spinning out a long-drawn-out plan. He'd start with friendly conversation, go out a few times, but never be overbearing...maybe employ some of his more trite tricks..she'd be his in virtually no time at all.

Dumbledore walked in. "Minerva! You've got the job!" **Precisely my prediction.**

"Oh thank you, Professor! Or may I call you Albus, now?" She smiled winningly.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Not yet, you start officially next year, remember."

He glanced at Riddle, suddenly staring at the catalogue. His eyes widened for a moment, but he quickly recovered himself. "I didn't know you went to Madame Malkin's, too, Tom. Surely I would've run into you by now," he said cheekily. "I find the crepe most soothing. Well, evening, Minerva, Tom.." He left, leaving the two alone.

**And so it begins,** Riddle thought.

"Looks like we'll be seeing a lot of each other now, Minerva," Riddle said. "May I start over? What a pleasure to see you again. Care to join me in Hogsmeade this weekend? I promise it isn't an escape measure this time."

"I don't see why not," she replied. She eyed the catalogue. "But leave that behind."

**Damn.** "Of course."

Easier than he'd anticipated.


	4. No More Crystallized Pineapple

Immediately following his traumatizing experience in the staff room, Riddle came to the realization that perhaps a date with McGonagall could lead to unforeseen benefits. He knew that there were plenty of talented witches, very likely with purer blood, who would be easier to convince to join his movement, but McGonagall was quite the tempting prospect in multiple respects. Firstly, he knew from their school days that she was a truly remarkable witch; he had been in the sixth year NEWT transfiguration class a year early and she had been his only real competition. Clearly a woman who made Lord Voldemort _work_ to keep his place at the top of the class was valuable.

Another crucial point in his conquest was that it would strike a significant blow to the damnably omniscient fool, Dumbledore. He had consistently been the professor to whom she had turned to for help, not just in transfiguration, but in other more personal matters as well. The fact that he hired her so quickly was ample proof of his fondness for her, rather akin to Dippet's for Riddle himself. Furthermore, when brought completely completely into hiis own allegiance, McGonagall could serve as a most excellent spy on his behalf, as Dumbledore would be loathe to believe his favorite student capable of such blatant treachery.

And finally, she had worked with the Ministry for some time. Clearly she was disillusioned, or she wouldn't seek a lower-paying job after title and position without a _very_ good reason.

"Yes, it's pretty much foolproof," he said aloud, "although timeframe remains to be seen." And filled with his familiar sense of smug complacency, Riddle retired for the night.

The weekend arrived quickly, but not quickly enough for eager students hoping to start Christmas shopping early in the month. As one of the adult escorts, Riddle was required to assist with checking the students for banned items, upon exiting and entering the castle. After a straggling Ravenclaw third year, who seemed to think Probity Probes a foreign and hilarious concept spent a quarter hour dodging one, was successfully dispatched, Riddle had a few moments left to plot before his date with McGonagall. Lousy Ravenclaw kid was probably a mudblood.

He recalled that she had mentioned she was staying at the Hog's Head for the duration, as Hogwarts was rather far from her native part of Scotland. **Note to self: Do not confuse her with the Irish.** He preferred his face as it was. Perhaps he would pick her up there and improvise, since he hadn't actually told her to meet him anywhere and she hadn't seemed overtly eager. The appearance of sincerity, Riddle realized, was crucial, and he became more aware of his inability to make a planned event seem spontaneous. Interaction with Dumbledore was ample proof of his inadequacy in _that_ area. Not to mention he hadn't been in the dating sphere for the past five years since he'd gone underground…he hoped he wasn't out of practice.

Accurséd romance. A foreign concept, but he'd have to make it work.

As he walked, a ways behind the other teacher chaperones, he tried to dredge up what little he knew about her from their interaction at Hogwarts, nothing very useful coming to mind. He cursed quietly. Passerby would have seen a young man, head bowed, grumbling to himself in a way that wasn't strictly sane. **Try again.** She was in dueling club, on the Quidditch team... he may have danced with her a couple of times at the Slug Club parties... Nothing particularly useful came to mind. He felt rather inclined to capitalize on what little remnants of a school crush remained, if there were any.

Ah well. Conjuring a bouquet of roses got him two horcruxes, so it was proven to be effective. It was worth a shot again. It was a shameless cop-out, he knew, but what else could he do?

He arrived at the Hog's Head and entered, shaking snow off his cloak. He looked around the room searchingly, until McGonagall entered his line of sight. As he walked over to meet her, he was painfully aware of Slughorn, oak matured mead in hand, following his gaze and then brazenly grinning at him with a humiliating lack of subtlety; it wasn't exactly diverting anyone's attention. Cursing McGonagall for being a brilliant witch and thus rendering her services necessary, himself for subjecting himself to this masochistic torture, and Slughorn for loudly whispering to the barman complete with illustrative gestures, Riddle reached her after a walk of shame that seemed altogether too long.

He offered her his arm. "You look nice," he murmured quietly, lest someone other than McGonagall hear him. **Slughorn's not getting any crystallized pineapple this Christmas. My mind is made up.** He meant it, as well. Her hair was twisted up into a French knot, and she was wearing very airy, sage green cashmere robes. The gust of cold air the open door allowed in brought a pink flush to her face.

"Likewise," she said, glancing over him. "Amazing what a difference leaving that precious catalogue behind makes," she added, taking his arm.

Riddle's face soured at the comment. For a moment he considered laughing loudly, announcing "now Minerva, not _here,_ can't you wait? It hasn't even been five minutes!" but stopped once he considered potential effects on his reputation, instead saying, "Shall we?" quietly and walking with her to the door. Slughorn elbowed him as he left, eyebrows performing a bizarre tumbling routine of suggestion. Riddle repressed the urge to hex Slughorn, Obliviate the rubberneck bartender, and apparate away to Albania. To make matters worse, McGonagall seemed to be aware that he was up to something, or at least noticed he wasn't calm, and delighted in his discomfort. Her little smile certainly couldn't only be because of the Christmas tree she was looking at.

It wasn't _too_ late to escape to Albania...

He composed himself once outside, pausing once they were no longer visible to Hog's Head patrons. "I brought you flowers," he said quietly, conjuring a bouquet of roses.

Hell, it worked before. Why not again?

"Very pretty," she said, lifting them to inhale their fragrance. Riddle, not averse to invading people's minds, gathered that her favorite flowers were hyacinth, so as the blooms reached her nose, he transfigured them. Yes, he was showing off.

"Nice," she said, beginning to smile. "But I'm afraid they have the texture of rose petals." She smirked at his disbelief. "No matter, Tom, transfiguration isn't _really_ your specialty, although for a nonverbal it was rather good. How did you know these were my favorite flowers?"

**Occlumency isn't really **_**your**_** specialty...** Riddle thought snidely. "Shall I say intuition? They suit you," he said instead.

"Intuition for a mundane detail like that?" She raised her eyebrows. "I find that...creepish."

"I think the word you meant to say was 'sweet' or perhaps 'unusual.'" Riddle replied. "Did you have any place in mind?" He asked, changing the subject.

"Personally I'd rather revisit Hogwarts, but you'll need to escort students back, right?" He nodded. "Then let's just tour Hogsmeade and catch up."

"We can see Hogwarts afterwards if you like, but you'd be wasting all of your Saturday on me," he said, fixing his eyes on her intently. **Cheesy, but tolerable.**

"Well, I'm about to waste half, so what does the rest matter? I'll see the school again, at least, even if I don't have a tour guide of my choice." She took his arm without invitation this time. "So how do you find teaching?..."

They continued for the rest of the date in this manner, stopping for a coffee along the way. McGonagall, Riddle decided, was like a cat. Not just any cat; a tabby cat that would pretend to be placid and trusting, but really, once it entered your home it would take over so that even the tea had cat hair in it, and the cat would be judging you all the while, as if it were your fault.

Riddle did not like cats; they were far too independent as pets and he couldn't really talk to them. If not a snake, a subservient dog would be his animal of choice. And it just added to the irony that McGonagall was on the list of recently certified animagi, and a cat at that. As if his life wasn't trying enough.

Dumbledore's name came up in the conversation frequently when it strayed toward transfiguration, eliciting complementary remarks from McGonagall and irritation on Riddle's part. Clearly, she was heavily influenced by her Transfiguration mentor. "Now Tom," McGonagall said suddenly, "Discussing magical theory is as enjoyable as ever, but you've hardly told me anything of what you've done since school."

"Unlike you, I haven't had the most interesting of jobs, but I could bore you with details of artifacts from Borgin and Burke's should you so desire.."

"Really. You and I both know you aren't one to let your mind idle. I doubt it's physically possible for you." Riddle chuckled.

"Ah, Minerva. You always were so astute." **To the point of being insufferable.** "But I simply can't help it if your life is more interesting than mine. And that was a rather mundane detail to remember about me, wasn't it?"

She laughed. "I suppose so. And do you find _me_ creepish now?"

"Certainly not. I don't think it's physically possible for you." **Smooth.**

She smiled and pushed him playfully. "I'll remember that and take full advantage of it later."

"Please do, and don't leave me out of the equation." Riddle replied with what he knew was rather obvious flirting.

They continued on in companionable silence, following the homeward bound group of students to the gates of Hogwarts, where Riddle was forced to endure what seemed like an eternity of checking students for banned items. Confiscating love potions, dungbombs, and giant firecrackers was stressful enough, and Slughorn wasn't helping, with his booming declarations of "love in the air" and "you're a very lucky man, Tom" and the like. A request for him to lower his voice from the "smitten" gentleman in question resulted in a low, constant stream of incessant prattle that was significantly worse, causing his chins and mustache to quiver in a most repulsive manner. It was rather disgusting.

Despite the less than stellar events of the day, Riddle was pleased to see Dumbledore's surprise at the image of Riddle and McGonagall walking closer than strictly necessary across the darkening grounds as he left her at the gate.

"I leave on Monday. I think I can safely say I enjoyed myself, and I'll be sorry to leave." McGonagall said, turning to face him at the gate.

"I'm glad to hear it, because starting next year, this will be every weekend." She smiled.

"A bit presumptuous, aren't you?" She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Good night."

"Can you really blame me? And you've all but said yes." He raised her hand to his lips. "Good night, Minerva." He was clearly off to a glorious start. "Perhaps I'll see you during a break."

"Hopefully. But like you said, there's still next year."

En route to the Great Hall, he was accosted by Slughorn. "Tom, old boy, would it be premature of me to congratulate you?"

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Whatever for, Professor?"

Slughorn chuckled. "I've been around a while Tom, and I can see things. That girl is so besotted, you're a fool to play dumb. Not to mention you aren't convincing anyone with that 'aloof' act. I can tell you aren't immune to Minerva either. Who could blame you? She's very pretty, Tom..." **Way to completely misread the situation, Slughorn.**

"I assure you, I just wanted to catch up." Annoying though Slughorn may be, Riddle was secretly pleased. Slughorn's erroneous interpretation proved he was quite the actor.

Slughorn winked. "I won't say anything! But I'm glad this clears up those rumors about...well. Everyone has quirks Tom, but are those catalogues really necessary? People were starting to wonder."

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Those rumors were completely unfounded. I'm happily single. Why does everyone think it _means_ something?"

"I feel inclined to disagree with 'happily single'," Slughorn said, beaming. "What a loss to women everywhere. You know, I was just telling Scamander.."

**Will he ever shut up?** And as far as the catalogue, this settled it. He'd charm the books to look like Magical Law for Beginners or perhaps an encyclopedia. Let's see who questioned his reading material now.


	5. RIP, Dippet

A/N: I was shocked (and pleased) at the response to my little crackfic! But here is more. Again, I own nothing. Dang, now I actually have to make a plot, or this will just trail off.

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own them. Because if I did, Pottermore would have some little tidbits about this lovely couple's relationship. Which happened. I wish.

_McGonagall POV_

Minerva headed back to the Hog's Head, unable to decide if the day's events were highly enjoyable or rather nauseating. Really, "I brought you flowers"? How often had he used _that_ line? It was really unfortunate that bit of transfiguration had been impressive; there really was no trace of roses in the bouquet. She was just being snobby. It was bad enough a fifth year had gotten into NEWT level transfiguration back in the school days. Must he excel in everything?

Clearly he wanted something, and the something was either her or something he felt she had or could do. It was more likely she was instrumental in some plan of his, since Tom rarely was dating someone in school, and when he did it was for a short time. And naturally, the cocky bastard was too secure in his abilities to con and manipulate others to think she actually knew what the hell was going on. The only problem was, she hadn't the slightest clue what direction he was taking, and there was the possibility her suspicions were completely unfounded...

However she had to admit she had enjoyed their day immensely. It wasn't often that she went out, and her dates were often disappointingly dull. Her interests in her work were unusual, she knew, and complex theoretical transfiguration was not a frequented topic on dates, though she wished it were. For this reason, this date was like eating an enormous sundae on a bed of Honeydukes ganache, smothered in caramel. And like any sweet, there were frightening calorie counts to accompany it.

Minerva McGonagall was not a witch who crashed a diet, no matter how tempting the sweet. Although, strictly speaking, she wasn't actually on a diet in the first place...wait, what did that metaphor have to do with anything? Her brain was tired.

She knew she was shamelessly making excuses to herself since something felt off about the whole thing. She just enjoyed a date in which she could discuss her interests, academic though they may be, with someone who genuinely enjoyed them and could contribute to the conversation. No, that was a lie too. Tom _was_ an attractive prospect, and the fact that he was so attentive was a flattering change. But her doubts were too manifest for her to ignore, to the point she felt she had to take some form of action. It seemed silly to get so ruffled over such a small occurrence, but then it was better to be hypercautious and feel foolish afterwards than to be lax and have regrets...

The easy starting point to a solution would be to talk to Dumbledore. He was the only teacher that didn't fawn over Tom; therefore, he would remain unswayed and disinterested. For some reason, she didn't feel her parents would take it seriously. After all, she hadn't mentioned Tom during the school days, so they would find no reason for apprehension. She always had felt that she could trust Dumbledore as well, so she felt comfortable disclosing her dilemma to him. Her family didn't know Tom at all, so they wouldn't be much help in this situation. She'd write to Dumbledore tonight.

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_I would like to speak with you sometime tomorrow. It concerns a soon-to-be-colleague. I hope you will be unreserved. Is there any time you have in mind for the meeting?_

_Thanks,_

_Minerva_

The response was not what was expected.

_Minerva-_

_When is the earliest you can start teaching? Visit at any time convenient._

There was no signature, but she recognized the spidery writing. Why would he have her start work in December? Dumbledore, despte his age, was a picture of health...perhaps he was to go on holiday, or had a family emergency? But that didn't explain why he wrote "teaching" and not something about substituting for him with a phrase like "fill in."

"At any rate," she said aloud, "I'll find out tomorrow."

The next day she was greeted at the gate by Tom, who looked unusually shaken and downcast.

"What's going on?" she asked. When Tom merely sighed and ran a hand through his hair - something that had apparently happened repeatedly within a short span of time, from its disheveled nature - her worry began to mount.

"Dippet passed away."

His voice was composed, but he appeared preoccupied and upset. She felt suddenly numb from the knowledge.

"And Dumbledore assumes headmaster duties?" Her voice seemed foreign, as though someone else was speaking, despite her lips shaping the words. The moment seemed still more surreal as a corner of her brain distantly registered the falling snow as though dispassionately watching the scene.

Tom nodded. "Which leaves a job vacancy." He looked from the ground to her. "Perhaps a silver lining," he added, seeing her flush.

"You have an appointment, don't you?" She nodded. "I should have known; you got my hopes up momentarily." She opened her mouth in protest, feeling her face turn red, but Tom continued. "You happened to interrupt the funeral proceedings. Would you care to stay?"

"Of-of course." _Armando Dippet is dead._ She felt a drop on her cheek. Was it a tear or a melted snowflake? she wondered. _Armando Dippet is dead_**.** Her mind repeated it numbly, trying to make sense of it. Tom turned, and plowed through the snow, his wand dangling forgotten from his hand. She hurried to catch up. Alone time was _not_ what she needed now.

_Voldy POV_

Ever the opportunist, Riddle had immediately left to open the gate once the castle was alerted to a guest's presence. First of all, it was probably McGonagall. He had a penchant for intercepting mail; something about it gave him the warm fuzzies. Secondly, the walk outside, however brief, would give him time to think and escape the depressing funeral atmosphere. He didn't need to be reminded of human mortality. Thirdly, if it was McGonagall, this was an excellent opportunity to show a compassionate side. Or at least a vaguely upset one. The fact remained that at the rate he was going, he was nowhere near building an army at Hogwarts. He'd have better luck breeding an army of rabbits to protect his latest horcrux, Ravenclaw's diadem. Now if he were smarter, he would've left it in Albania, maybe have toured the world, all while spreading his message of pureblood superiority, perhaps recruiting an army of fascist wizards along the way...

As he walked with McGonagall to the Great Hall, he pondered the implications Dippet's death would have, besides a sudden lack of access to a certain liquor cabinet stocked with absinthe (Dumbledore preferred gin). Dumbledore, he knew, would be waiting for a reason to fire him, or at least refuse to renew Riddle's contract. With good reason, true, but it was still a major inconvenience. And although Riddle was confident that he could be discreet, his plans could be kept completely hidden only up to a point. After a while, they would be noticeable. Visions of goose-stepping students entering the Great Hall, waiting for a command to act on brought an irreverent smile to his lips. Dumbledore would have warned McGonagall, by the end of the day. He was sure both completely trusted the other, so there would be more than enough challenge to keep him interested. And if all else failed, there was always a good Imperius curse at his disposal, but that was so very _boring_...

He would have to win over McGonagall, and through her, cut Dumbledore out of the equation. She was the very image of proper, and Dumbledore's obvious double standards meant that he'd refuse to believe anything bad of his favorite former student. Besides, it wasn't as if the object of his "affection" was repulsive; she was actually quite pretty, although the news he'd brought had given her a most unappealing pasty hue. On top of that, conducting a romance with Minerva might cause Dumbledore to lose some of his preconceived suspicions of Riddle, since he was always willing to believe in the power of love. Yes, there just might be some divine intervention in his favor. He was practically handed circumstances that suited his agenda complete with gullible people.

Perhaps there _was_ a god.

Wait. That meant he would face divine retribution if he followed through on his plans.

No. Lord Voldemort faces no silly divine retribution. Punishment wasn't really his thing. _Maybe I should make referring to myself in third person a thing! That'd be original.._

"Minerva," he said, arranging his features into an understanding, sad smile. He offered his arm, which, to his surprise, she draped across her shoulders, even leaning her forehead into the hollow of his neck. Was she cold? Or did she have too much catnip during her last excursion as a feline? She couldn't possibly be this gullible.

"I suppose we should be happy," she said, voice muffled, her breath warm against his skin. "He had a wonderful career, an enviably long life...but it's so hard to _believe_ he's gone.." _How old was he?_ Riddle thought disdainfully. _Two hundred twenty-something_? Not that impressive - he could live far longer than that once sweet, elusive immortality was in his grasp...

"..I suppose it's just hard for those who knew him." he finished for her gently.

They were at the castle now, thoroughly soaked from the snow and a sight to anyone who didn't know what transpired. Riddle's penchant for all things dramatic tempted him to walk in through the main doors, save that troubling fact that it would appear insensitive. They entered from the back discreetly. McGongall was shivering by now, still leaning against his side, casting a drying charm on her tartan robes. Besides students, the room was filled with Ministry officials and what Riddle assumed were family and friends. Dippet had been an influential man after all.

During the wake, Riddle felt his mind wandering. He was deep in a daydream of an army of penguins and rabbits guarding the diadem when he felt a sudden release of pressure on his side, accompanied by the scrape of chair legs over the floor.

"Tom, it's time to go," McGonagall whispered, tugging at his lapel. "Go get yourself dried off." He rose, observing the scuffle of attendees leaving the room. McGonagall was saying something.

"What?" he said, distracted. _No, not rabbits... but penguins are a possibility...Inferi are good, but I so dislike redundancy..._

"I said, I'm going to see Professor Dumbledore, and-"

"Albus to you, now," he reminded. "and you were saying-?"

"Well, I wanted to tell you 'thank you' before leaving,"

He raised an eyebrow, giving her an often practiced, innocently puzzled smile, the result of countless hours spent in front of the mirror at the orphanage. How else would he escape punishment for the numerous things he _supposedly_ did? "For what?"

"For being so..thoughtful. It was most uncharacteristic. I think you'll find I too have quite the attentive memory to detail, especially from the old Hogwarts days." She managed a smile, leaving Riddle at quite the loss for words as she turned and walked to the staircase.

_Damn it_, Riddle thought, irritated but somewhat appreciative. He almost felt played. Perhaps it was time to alter his approach.

A/N: I'm stuck! I need suggestions. Any tips on how to incorporate a fluffy scene without making it obvious I'm hunting for an excuse to stick one in?


	6. OOC Voldy

_A/N: _I wanted to try my hand at writing Dumby, and I'm afraid it doesn't sound like him. Not to mention old Voldy has ADD. He seems to think about animals quite a bit in this fic. And for the sake of my sanity, let's say a week has passed, with the two of them dating, so my mental timelines all match up.

_Minerva POV_  
>Minerva walked into Dumbledore's office, noticing with a pang the portrait of Armando Dippet already hung behind the desk, sleeping peacefully in the frame. She conjured herself a chair -stiff backed, cherry wood, well varnished - as there were none present save the headmaster's, and waited.<p>

Dumbledore didn't keep her for long. "Ah, Minerva. I was expecting you. Turkish delight?" She looked at the box with distaste and politely declined. "Very well-" he said, taking three. "Now, I wanted you to join the transfiguration department initially, but unfortunately Armando's passing..." He trailed off. "Well, I'm sure you understand the difficulty it brings. That is why you'll begin your teaching duties after Christmas vacation. You may observe my classes, and I will evaluate your teaching in turn, and hopefully if all goes well you may start before the vacation. I'm afraid you learning period will be quite short. What do you think?"

"It sounds ideal," she said at last. "But how will I move from my apartment at such short notice? And I haven't officially resigned from the Ministry..."

"I'll take care of the Ministry," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "They're always happy to hear from me. As for moving, your rooms are quite comfortable, and I don't think there will be much lacking...except in the way of clothing." He chuckled. "Forgive me, I had the same dilemma when I started." He stared off in the distance, apparently reminiscing. "Perhaps Tom can help with the clothing dilemma. He must have Madame Maulkin's stock memorized by now."

"Excellent," Minerva said, standing, Dumbledore's reference to half her reason for visiting passing by unnoticed. She felt uncharacteristically giddy. "When is your next class?"

"9 o'clock tomorrow, but please sit down. Don't you want to discuss what you wrote me about?" She sat again, slowly, with trepidation and eagerness. "Sherbet lemon?" he offered.

"Thank you." She frowned at the taste, unable to see their appeal.

"Quite welcome. Now, I've noticed you've been out with Tom." His tone, rather than accusatory, was concerned.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted the funeral proceedings. I hope it didn't appear rude."

"No, no. Nothing of the sort. But how do you find Tom?" He peered over his half-moon glasses intently. "You're clearly of two minds, or you wouldn't have mentioned it when you wrote me."

Minerva tried to assess her feelings honestly. "He's as attractive, intelligent, and shrewd as ever." She thought she detected a smile from Dumbledore.

"Is there anything...you want to tell me, Minerva?" She was silent. "Are you very fond of him?" he asked.

"Perhaps," Minerva replied truthfully, wondering if Dumbledore thought something more than what he had seen occurred. "It's hard not to be."

"I see." He was observing her very seriously now, and she felt self-conscious for some reason under what she was sure was his muted disapproval.

"That isn't to say I trust him!" A blush was creeping its way onto her face. "For the most part, I recognize his..his...I'm well aware he's likely up to something!" She felt very defensive.

Dumbledore smiled, though his eyes remained thoughtful. "You are no longer my student, but I feel obliged to warn you not to grow attached and maintain distance. Tom is not the sort of man I would like to see become intimate with a witch I respect and care about very much." His face grew serious. "It is my intuition, I think, and my knowing Tom as a student."

Minerva was peeved, despite her implicit trust in Dumbledore. His use of the word 'intuition' was also irritaing; that was Tom's favorite explanation and she didn't need to hear it elsewhere. It was annoying enough from one person. Also, there would be few other members of the Hogwarts staff she could talk to familiarly; most had been her teachers. Students weren't an option either; if she was going to teach, she couldn't undermine her authority by conversing with children. And he insisted she had to 'maintain distance'? _Or I could just wait for Pomona to begin working here…she mentioned applying. _"Of course, Professor."

Minerva found she now had the option to prepare to move in to Hogwarts or kill time in the library. In an unusual fit of procrastination, she chose the latter, hoping to squeeze a few moments of reading Muggle sci-fi literature, a guilty pleasure of hers.

_Voldy POV_

Riddle was quite sure Dumbledore would have mentioned him during the meeting with McGonagall, and not in complementary context. He would have to behave naturally, as if he knew nothing. Or at least as naturally as an evil dark lord can be, hell-bent on acquiring followers and reading about different varieties of toucans and horcrux protections at his day job, all while feeding a toucan grapes. He'd heard they were vicious, yet endearing.

The toucans, that is. The way they ate grapes was rather adorable. Horcruxes were almost _never_ endearing, and if they were, something clearly wasn't right. Either that, or the person who found the horcrux endearing was an attention-deprived first year. But nothing beyond that.

His toucan gave a loud squawk at the lull in grapes and pecked, attracting quite a few stares and giggles from students in the library. Riddle made a mental note not to use toucans to protect valuables. Clearly they were simply obnoxious, and would require far too many grapes. Adorableness was not enough of a redeeming quality. And, he reasoned, it would simply draw attention, the opposite of what he wanted. He was considering snakes, weighing effectiveness against redundancy when he noticed McGonagall in the Muggle Studies section. He did the only thing he could do after several minutes of her obliviousness to his presence: promptly Summoned her to his elbow to her surprise and displeasure. He was growing rather tired of waiting for her to put down the novel, and besides, Lowther the toucan was lousy conversation.

"Is that a toucan?" McGonagall asked, annoyance forgotten as she eyed the bird.

"Yes, his name is Mr. Lowther. He's generally well behaved when he's not _demanding grapes._" These last words were accompanied by a pointed look aimed at the bird as it preened. Riddle threw a grape in disgust, which was promptly snapped up. McGonagall charmed the bag of grapes to feed the bird at regular intervals. "What brings you here?" he continued innocently. "Careful, or I'll start to think you enjoy my company."

"Don't play innocent. You know perfectly well _you_ brought me here."

"Delightful. So you do enjoy my company, then." She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"That's the downside of being a young staff member," she said lightly. "My options are so limited."

"Officially started, then?" He paged through the book nonchalantly. _No, no. __A niffler would only steal the horcrux._

"Not quite. I start shadowing Dumbledore tomorrow. I may begin teaching before Christmas vacation." She leaned over. "What are you reading?" She thought she detected notes in the margins of the book. His start made her wonder what it was he had written, and she leaned over the book.

Theatrically, he closed the book with a snap, displacing the strands that hung from her face with the puff of air. "Curiosity killed the cat, Minerva." He was disappointed when she smiled, unimpressed by his dangerous tone, and plucked the book from his fingers.

"True, but as Dumbledore says, 'to the well organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.'" She examined the cover. "I didn't know you were fancied ornithology."

Riddle knew a witch of her caliber would have no trouble recognizing the book as a charmed item, and it was only a matter of time before she realized what it really was. He didn't need a repeat of Madame Malkin's episodes... they had been bad enough. Clearly, reading in public was no longer an option, at least not with _her_ around. "Give that here." She began to page through instead, settling onto the arm rest of his chair. Annoyed, Riddle said in a sarcastic voice, "Why won't you move? I didn't know you fancied the DADA professor."

That earned him his book back, across his face. "How childish." Her eyes were blazing now. "Ah, or maybe it's a grain of truth in there that set you off? Quite the prideful Gryffindor, aren't you?"

"What do I see in you?" she snapped, more to herself than him. Without deigning to answer she turned to leave, only to find her wrist caught.

"What has Dumbledore been telling you about me?" Her eyes widened.

"How do you know-" She was convinced now, of his Legilimency.

"Call it... intuition." Riddle pulled her closer, his hand traveling up her arm to her hair, where a few deft movements sent her bun tumbling to the small of her back where his other hand now rested.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Riddle stopped, surprised. He had been certain she would've gone for that. Apparently, the discomfited look in his eyes appeased her, as she lifted her hands to his shoulders, bracing them there. "Um…"

_"_Just a tad bit forward for me," she said at last, pushing him away.

He sat again, pulling McGonagall down with him. "You don't honestly expect me to think you mind." Hastily he Banished the book, taking advantage of her momentary distraction. No need to leave evidence lying around.

"Why do you mind if I see what you're reading? Everyone's seen Lowther by now. Toucans are rather obnoxious, you know."

"Of course I know toucans are obnoxious." Riddle was heartily congratulating himself by now. He hadn't counted on this much luck. Perhaps Mr. Lowther was responsible. Once he was immortal and had time for in-depth studies on trivial matters, he would look into the properties of toucans. They must be imbued with a magic akin to Felix Felices. Maybe when eaten...

Lowther had apparently sensed the thought, and took action. "All right, but Tom?"

"Hmm?"

"Lowther's out of grapes."

"So?"

"He's eating your shirt."

"Lowther! Stop that right now." Lowther made no indication of stopping. "Damn it, Lowther, you leave me no choice. Avada Kedavra!"

Lowther died, never to beg for grapes again.

McGonagall looked appalled. "Why would you _do_ that? You could have- have _stunned_ him or something!"

Riddle sighed. After a week of seeing McGonagall, he figured he was finally due for a little drama-inducing scene. He wasn't averse to it, but now? He didn't feel quite up to the idea. And it would appear so unprofessional, and Slughorn would be insufferable… _Ah well. It's all for the cause. _Stowing his pride in a buttonhole (he clearly had little, so this wasn't difficult), he mustered his most intense look and said, slowly and distinctly, "My office. Now." Riddle was unfamiliar with shame, but he encountered a large dose of the emotion as the words left his lips.

"Why…?" She seemed puzzled, but a bit of comprehension and amusement appeared in her eyes momentarily. "Oh, you can't be serious."

"Can't I?" He exited, smiling to himself as he heard her follow after a brief wait of disbelief.

But first, he mentally re-crossed toucans off his list.

A/N: If you caught the Miss Jean Brody reference you get a cookie.


	7. A Comedic Interlude

A/N: A comedic interlude written during writer's block. I will resume the actual story after this, though I'm tempted to end it here.

"I'm not happy, Minerva. Not happy at all." The man who had spoken reclined on a green and silver ottoman, fingers pinching at the bridge of his aristocratic nose. His dark, tousled hair hung in his eyes, and an expression of deep displeasure was etched across his handsome features. The expression rather suited him; if he had smiled it would have seemed unnatural.

"You and me both, Tom." The lady was standing relatively close to the ottoman, but seemed to spurn the idea of sitting near the man. Her ebony hair was pulled into a tight bun at the crown of her head, giving her pale-skinned face a rather severe look. Her green eyes flashed. "I mean, look at the audacity of our authoress. She can't write a love scene worth crap, the plot of this story is so contrived, and you and I would NEVER have a romance. Not even a twisted one seated in manipulation. I would never fall for that."

"I would never find you attractive." Tom Riddle raised an eyebrow. "Never really noticed, if I may be quite honest. We didn't know the other existed back in the school days, did we?"

"I did, but that was only because a good deal of the girls stalked you," Minerva McGonagall said with a blasé shrug. "Not to mention I was Head Girl when you were a prefect."

"Ah yes. I'd forgotten."

The two frowned at the teenage girl who stood in the center of the room. "Care to explain yourself?" Minerva crossed her arms, adding to her severe appearance.

"Well.. I always loved the pairing... It could have happened! Please, just go OUT with each other! You might enjoy yourselves!" She paled as Riddle stood up, coming to stand near Minerva. "Don't crucio me..."

"You can't write worth a damn."

"Your love scenes will be nauseating."

"We're completely out of character for the whole fic."

"Your plot has NO suspense whatsoever."

"After reading this, I wanted to vomit."

"After reading this, I wanted to kill you, slowly and painfully. What kind of IDIOT would make toucans a horcrux defense?" This last was said by Riddle, coupled with frantic gesticulation and a wild look in the eye.

"I-I just-"

"Never write again." Minerva spat in contempt. "Do you even have a life? How about some friends? Do you hole yourself up in your room for hours at a time to write this- this shit?"

"I do happen to have friends, thank you!" the girl snapped indignantly, brushing her black hair behind her shoulders. She looked on the verge of tears, having been mercilessly ripped apart by two of her favorite characters. "And some of them seem to really enjoy my story!"

"People lie," Riddle said coldly. "Get used to it. Have you even read Pottermore? There's no mention of me in Minerva's backstory. Doesn't that pretty much mean we had nothing to do with one another?"

The girl had a response this time. "I got the concept for the story before Pottermore, and I started before people could even sign up early. There!" She crossed her arms, her rounded face triumphant.

"You're writing a bloody self insert. That means even you aren't happy with the direction your 'story'-" he spat out the word condescendingly- "is taking."

Minerva noticed the girl's distress and took pity on her. "Tom, I think you've done enough." She turned back to the girl, and tried to quell her raging feelings of annoyance. "Listen, I think you have some promise as a fanfiction writer. You just need to learn how to make a plot, how to keep people in character, and how to write. Because frankly, what you've done so far isn't awful."

"It just isn't good, either," Riddle sneered.

Minerva shot him a filthy look. "Silencio," she said, pointing her wand at him. "Anyway, as I was saying, you aren't the worst author out there. And you could probably find some losers who would praise this crap. It'll boost your morale. But if you really want to improve, you have to hear this from us." She patted the girl's shoulder. "Okay?"

The girl nodded. "I understand."

Minerva smiled. "Good! Now then-"

"But didn't you guys like each other at all? There must have been some chemistry-"

"That's IT! I've had enough of her!" Riddle was violently angry now. "You want to see chemistry? I'll bloody well SHOW you chemistry!" He seized Minerva by the waist, and proceeded to have a rather citrusy make out scene that the authoress lacks the ability or talent to write effectively.

Not really. He just crucio'd the shit out of the authoress and left her in a quivering puddle of her own despair. Minerva finally restrained him, and sent him off to canonity where Riddle promptly went underground and made horcruxes in Albania. Minerva resumed teaching at Hogwarts, later marrying Elphinstone, proving Voldy just wasn't her type. The authoress retreated into her dank depression as she was once again forcefully reminded that the pairing she loved could never be and never was.

THEEND

(notreally)


	8. The Incident

A/N: Well, the lovely couple here- *gestures to Tom and Minerva* would like to say a few words before this next installment of "If He'd Gotten the Job." Professor?

McGonagall: I just want to say that what you're about to read is crap, and that it could never happen, even IF he'd gotten the job. I'm not an idiot, and I resent that I'm portrayed as one. That is all. *looks at the author*

A/N: Valid points, Professor, but there's always going to be a degree of OOCness when you make a crack pairing serious. I'll leave it there. Any words from _you_, my Lord?

Voldy: Lucius? Wormtail? Severus? Why am I still with this imbecile? And why won't my killing curses work on her?

A/N: Interesting choice of words, but not what I had in mind. Any thoughts on the direction the story is headed?

Voldy: No. It never happened, so there's no point. Why can't I kill you?

A/N: No clue. Of course _you're_ in denial. All right, that's enough stalling on my part. On with the fic! I hope you like it, because this was difficult to write accurately!

_In Teh Office of DADA_

Minerva couldn't believe she was willfully following Riddle into his office. It was like something out of one of the really cheap romance novels she prided herself on never buying. But surely, nothing would happen. Deceitful and shrewd he may be, but Riddle was a gentleman. Of that she was certain.

Riddle's thoughts were rather different, and he was consumed in a bout of momentary panic. He had been rather clear-cut, Minerva had followed, so it was obvious that she'd be expecting _something_. Naturally it all helped his cause, but she was such a _prude_ by nature. And now...

"Let's have tea." Mentally, he wanted to slap himself for backing out at the least possible moment. He had no reason to be hesitant to have a little tryst! He was Lord Voldemort; he had made his first horcrux at sixteen, and at present he had already made five. He had pushed the boundaries of magic farther than any predecessor, farther than Dumbledore himself. He was sure his discoveries and accomplishments were unsurpassed. And here he was, cringing at the idea of romancing Minerva. No, that wasn't accurate, that was just part of the job. He was cringing at the idea of leaking the rumor to the school. _That_ was the problem, and the fact that this too was out of necessity worsened the knowledge. Minerva's incredulous expression wasn't helping his discomfort, so he set about preparing the tea, though at the moment, a good stiff drink was what he needed most. Wait...he had the last of the stolen stash from Dippet's office...

"Are you _serious?_"

"Why, yes. What did you expect?" He smirked. The use of sarcasm had a tonic effect on him, and he felt ready to forge ahead with his plan. "I can only imagine what you expected. There's a cliched line in here that goes 'what do you want from me?' but subtlety isn't your forte, apparently." There, that ought to set off a tirade, giving him a perfect and cliched way to shut her up once she started.

"I can't believe this, I really can't. You just- you keep insinuating- oh, you're just insufferable. You've been more secretive than usual, and that's saying something. Not to mention about the most trivial things, too. I mean really? Tropical birds? I don't see the problem with me reading that." Her arms were crossed, her stance almost accusatory.

Riddle did not answer, but instead busied himself with the tea. It wasn't too late to back out, he reflected. He could always use a memory charm, forget the whole thing happened...leave after a year after the founding of Voldemort's Youth Army, move to Albania, change his name legally, live happily ever after... He couldn't help but smile though, her rant was completely irrelevent.

"What's so different? We're adults, I'll be frank. You never paid me any attention at school, now you practically follow me." She tapped her foot impatiently when he simply turned around to pour himself some absinthe, draining the glass in a gulp. "Are you bloody _lis_tening_?_"

"Of _course_." He smiled, his back to her. He'd come this far, he may as well follow through properly. Deliberately, he ceased with his tea preparations, resting his weight against the desk. _Impassioned_, he thought. _Think...Dumbledore and socks, Lowther and grapes..._ He paused, appalled. What repulsive ideas. Clearly he was unfamiliar with romance and out of practice from the younger days. Well, he could always wing it and see how it went. An image of Slughorn's face at the impending scene made him blanch, and nearly back out yet again. Minerva's voice brought him back to the present. She was prattling on incessantly..

"...and now here we are, in your office. Whatever explanation you have had better-"

He kissed her. Hard. And he damn well made it bloody convincing. Minerva's voice trailed off into spluttering as her air was depleted. She pulled away fairly slowly for someone so livid, Riddle was pleased to note. Everything was proceeding perfectly.

"You never know when to shut up, do you?"

Minerva could only stare, slowly rubbing a hand across her lips as if to erase what had just transpired. At last she found her voice. "What the hell was _that_ for?"

"Recall that trite little line I just mentioned? I want nothing more from you than what you want from me."

"You're very forward."

"No need to be coy, we're both grown up."

She laughed nervously. "I still can't believe you did that."

"I still can't believe you didn't hex me. Touching your hair earned me a book to the face, and this is exponentially worse in comparison."

"Is that a request?"

"No, merely banter."

"Well, should I humor you?"

"Perhaps, this back-and-forth is getting old quickly."

"Well, maybe you should kiss me again, this time with warning."

"Is that a request, or a trick to get me charged with sexual harassment? Because I don't intend to get fired with such a pathetic charge."

"A request, I suppose." She tilted her head back, face upturned. "How do you plan to interpret that?"

"Indecorously," he replied, pulling her to him and beginning anew, this time with no resistance.

Movement outside the office door prompted him to pull away first this time. There was potential damage control on his part in the very near future: locked door, he and McGonagall nowhere in sight...if it were a student, someone might relate quite the gossip-inducing scene. It simply wouldn't do, not if it wasn't the one _he _wanted related.

"It's Slughorn, dear boy! You left your papers in my office!" The call sounded distant through the closed door.

Slughorn? A different matter entirely. Feeling devious, he unlocked the door with his wand without breaking contact, allowing Slughorn in, and promptly pulling away after a couple moments more of an impressive display.

"What's the matter?" Minerva's eyes fluttered open. And then, "Oh, shit."

Slughorn dropped the papers. _Well, this was certainly awkward_. It was like walking in on your parents, only worse. Surely Dumbledore would instate some no-dating-coworkers policy if he heard of this? Naturally, however, Slughorn's misgivings were overpowered by his copious amounts of glee at the delicious scene he had just witnessed. Tom was being rather cool about the whole thing, clearly determined to put up an unbothered facade. He did an admirable job too, Slughorn conceded, as Tom looked distinctly unruffled by his gaze. In fact, he looked slightly amused, as if _he_ had caught _him_ at something.

He retrieved the papers and Banished them to Riddle's desk. "I was just dropping off your papers.. I'll let you two get back to...whatever it was you two were doing." He winked, and hastily backed out of the room, swinging the door shut.

"Well, this looks worse than it was."

"How so?" Minerva asked. She found that she had enjoyed herself, and was a bit uncomfortable about this fact. "And for the record I don't usually.."

"That's what they all say, and it's never the case. Have a mirror on you?" When she shook her head, he conjured a mirror and handed it to her in response.

"Merlin, I look a sight." She examined her face and held her hair back up. "This looks so unprofessional. I can only imagine..just our luck, too, Slughorn's quite the gossiping type.."

"I think you look rather picturesque, myself," Riddle said. "Though your class might ask questions. May I?"

"Please." McGonagall perched on the armrest of his chair as he slowly moved his wand over any incriminating evidence, even smoothing the hair and pulling it into a tight, immaculate bun once more. Being economical, he returned to possible horcrux hiding places. He liked the idea of leaving one at Hogwarts. _What if I hid the diadem in Dumbledore's office?__In a pair of steel wool socks, so he wouldn't wear them? No...the old git would notice such strong magic emanating from socks, he has a sock fetish, I'm sure._

Socks too were off the list.

"Need company?" _No. But naturally, I can't say that._

"No, but you're welcome to stay," he said instead, pulling out a slew of ungraded fourth year essays and viciously grading them, docking points with explanations such as 'more detail' or 'poor phrasing.' Little did he know, it was but a precursor of what he would do to future followers after yet another botched Potter-murder.

"All right, then I have a question."

"Go on."

"Have any grapes?" She was smiling.

"Don't you dare."

A/N: Poor Voldy. His poor poor character was subjugated to quite a bit. Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I wasn't going to update until the weekend, but something about reviewer alerts just makes me want to write more for y'all. I feel like I'm losing the humor as well. Tips?


	9. Voldy Likes French

A/N: Hey, everyone! I apologize for my not updating for a while, but I've been really busy with finals, and the week following finals was very difficult for other reasons. I also apologize for the lack of humor in this chapter. But I'm back and ready to write more for you! Thank you to everyone who favorited and especially to Sachita and Sherbetkitty who left such kind reviews. There will be a Miss Jean Brody reference again, by the way, a shamelessly large one. On to the fic!

Following The Incident, it became rather obvious that something had happened between the transfiguration and DADA professors. Riddle and McGonagall were certainly warmer with each other than before, but gradually any semblance of caution disappeared. It was only a matter of time, Riddle decided, before Dumbledore reached the breaking point and called them in to interrogate them again. He had taken care that no one, save Slughorn, had actually managed to witness anything. Slughorn was enough, but due to his loose-lipped nature, nothing would remain under wraps for long.

A rumor spread among the students, likely Slughorn-instigated, that something delicious had happened between their two youngest professors. The conspiracy theorists speculated that it was a calculated move to throw them off and make them so distracted that they would fail their classes. They were the two least lenient professors after all, and would stop at nothing to make life still more difficult for their students. The normal children, not destined for careers as Aurors or in magical law, thought it was "sooooo cuuuuute!"

All in all, the fairly dull lives of the slandering students were significantly brightened by the affair. The younger children simply found it amusing, but the elder ones exchanged snide, significant looks and comments in their common rooms, analyzing each visit and every word exchanged. The student body single-handedly blew the romance to such epic proportions that in time a great deal was myth, and as much was truth. Naturally, Riddle was aware of this but was not about to stop any of it, so long as it served his purpose.

But that all came much later.

Naturally, Minerva had misgivings about the whole encounter the morning after, despite her initial reaction. The fact that it was Tom Riddle was reason enough to behave with a little more composure and guarded suspicion. _Nearly ten years of my life were dedicated to building that ice-queen demeanor,_ she thought ruefully,_ and now it's all gone, for the likes of Tom Riddle. _She also was livid that Slughorn had walked in and caught them unawares. Naturally he would tell Dumbledore, and it was disgustingly plausible that he'd exaggerate what he'd seen to something truly scandalous. Minerva McGonagall was a progressive woman, but she still would consider it an insult to her character if Slughorn let on that anything more than an innocent -or perhaps not so innocent- kiss had transpired.

She mused about the effectiveness of a memory charm on the man, and was shocked at herself for the thought.

And then of course there was that small issue of facing Tom at breakfast... with Dumbledore present...and Slughorn as well.

Riddle was questioning whether he had been too thorough in removing evidence of his and Minerva's tryst. On the one hand, he didn't want Dumbledore's suspicions to be too aroused at this point. On the other hand, people needed hard evidence if they were to believe anything. And of course, it wasn't as though two young, single, attractive professors could go about romantically involved, and not incite interest and amusement in the students! There had to be a way that would endear the idea to the students -and therefore endear himself to them- as well as serve his greater purpose, the makings of an army. But what would work?

He considered potential methods over breakfast in the Great Hall, blanching inwardly when Dumbledore -damnably politely, of course- asked that he _please_ pass the grapes, of all things. The man never ate grapes. No, he must be paranoid. Soon he'd be exclaiming "constant vigilance" like that nutter Alastor in the Ministry. He made a mental note to dispose of him once he rose to power, or at least do something about his abominably huge nose. A non-existant nose would be a better alternative to _that_ monstrosity, he decided. The pleasant scent of Minerva's perfume wafted across to him as she took her seat beside Slughorn, breaking him from his reverie and causing him to stealthily look in their direction. Minerva was beginning to flush pink as her conversation with Slughorn progressed -much like she had in his office, Riddle thought with amusement- as he doubtlessly subjected her to the third degree. Her expression was earnest, and she tried in vain to retain the icy composure for which she would later be renowned for. A quick charm allowed him to hear their words.

**Fast-forward**

"Fred, look at this!"

"What is it?"

"Some chap made a spell that lets you hear conversations you aren't privy to!"

"Blimey, George, do you have anything better to tell me?"

"Remember your idea for extendable ears, and how your charm wouldn't work?"

The revelation dawned on Fred Weasely, as he stared at the faded parchment scrap in Umbridge's desk, lost for decades. "George, I think it's time we pay tribute to all the great pranksters who walked-"

"-through Hogwarts' hallowed halls? Couldn't agree more, mate."

**Resume story**

Riddle promptly cast the spell, and returned to looking innocent, an act he had taken to practicing in front of his mirror after his first date with Minerva, as he ate breakfast.

"...really nothing, Professor."

"My dear, what I saw was certainly not 'nothing.' I, for one, find you both to be a lovely match. You know, I was just saying to Dumbledore, I said-"

"You can't have told Professor Dumbledore," Minerva said tersely, cutting Slughorn off mid-sentence. "I'm quite certain there are strictures in place against the sort of thing, and you are too fond of Tom to..to..."

"You worry too much! And this isn't unheard of you know," he said, eyes twinkling. "You both aren't the first and I doubt you'll be the last. I'll call him over." Minerva's protestations fell on deaf ears, as Slughorn reached around the astronomy professor to tug on Dumbledore's sleeve. "Albus, did I tell you..?"

With that, Riddle ended the charm, satisfied. If Dumbledore didn't call them in for questioning, he would be very disappointed. Almost on cue, just as the meal ended, Dumbledore beckoned to him; he observed that Minerva was already standing. "Meet me in my office, Tom," Dumbledore said. "Minerva has already consented to join us."

Riddle inclined his head, narrowing his eyes at Dumbledore's retreating form. _Thinks he's very clever, that one..._

"Are you coming, or not?" Minerva asked, standing a few feet away, hands on hips. "He's waiting, you know."

Riddle walked towards her, falling into step with her as they approached the staircase that led to the headmaster's office. He moved in so he was uncomfortable close, allowing his hand to brush hers, causing her to casually hide it in the folds of her tartan skirt. Riddle concealed a smile. "What do you suppose he's going to...interrogate us about, _ma minette_?"

"Interesting term of endearment, Tom. Don't you think you're getting your hopes up rather quickly?" Her tone was waspish.

"You can't honestly think you haven't given ample room to do so."

She blushed, though whether it was from embarrassment or anger he couldn't tell. "I don't usually do that."

"Ah, so I'm an unusual case for you. Doesn't that give me all the more reason to think-"

"You're being ridiculous."

"You're raising your voice..." Minerva looked taken aback and lowered her tones. "..._minette_."

Her face snapped up to meet his, and her eyes expressed annoyance and humor. "How many times must I tell you, _mon cher_, that I-"

"Clearly a thousand more times, so I can hear more French endearments from you, though I'd hoped for a more creative one."

"Don't grow accustomed to it." She arched a brow. "Why _'minette'_ of all things?"

"Because, _mon mimi_, you're rather cat-like."

"How so?" she said, ignoring his next attempt.

"Not important. Intuition. Call it what you may."

"That's your answer to everything, isn't it? Intuition? How much of your supposed intuition is glorified snooping around?"

"I refuse to answer that, as it will irritate you more." This prompted a smile from her.

"Why are you so fond of French? At least tell me that."

"Do you not find it a lovely language?" Riddle said nonchalantly. "It's also wonderful when one is in search of a good anagram, or perhaps a method of kissing."

"Hmmm. Depends on who's speaking it." She ignored his last remark.

"And if it's me?"

She laughed. "Your accent is nearly perfect."

"I would love to discuss your obvious aversion to your still more obvious feelings for me -don't try and deny it just yet!" he said, laying a long finger across her lips as she opened her mouth in protest, "-but we're at Dumbledore's office, and I don't think he'd approve of this conversation when he likely has something different in mind."

"You are so full of yourself." She addressed the gargoyle. "Oh, damn. What was the password again?"

"Licorice snap, unless I'm much mistaken."

Once inside, they settled into the two comfortable armchairs Dumbledore had already conjured. Riddle noticed the liquor cabinet, sadly devoid of any absinthe, and likely stocked with oak matured mead and gin in its place. Clearly, Dumbledore was a man of less refined tastes, though the plethora of silver instruments and finery in the room was evidence to the contrary. Overcompensation, perhaps?

"Tom, Minerva, please take a seat." Dumbledore sat down behind his desk, eyes twinkling merrily as he popped three lemon drops into his mouth.

Riddle exchanged a look with Minerva. "We're already seated, Dumbledore, but thank you for your... hospitality."

"Ah, yes. Forgive me, I'm accustomed to being seated before others walk in, but there's actually a wonderful story as to why I wasn't today." Dumbledore steepled his fingers and was silent for a few moments, apparently reminiscing.

"...Are you going to _tell_ us the story?" Minerva asked.

"Oh! Certainly, if you're interested."

"We really aren't," said Riddle, but Dumbledore continued as though he hadn't spoken.

"Fawkes was upstairs, and the window was open because he had just returned from a morning flight. Marvelous birds, phoenixes." He paused again.

"Go on," Riddle said through clenched teeth.

"Ah yes, forgive me," Dumbledore continued. "Just as he returned, a toucan flew in after him! Now, I spent some time studying tropical birds in my youth, and I knew this was no ordinary phenomenon. Either this is an extraordinary toucan, or the result of some extraordinary magic." Minerva and Tom exchanged looks again. "But the reason I was delayed is, to put it simply, Fawkes and the toucan started to cuddle, and it was perhaps the most darling thing I've ever seen. So naturally I did what any sane man would do: take photographs of Fawkes and his new friend." He paused, beaming at them. "And that's why I was late."

"That's...very interesting, Professor," Minerva said politely. Riddle sighed audibly and rolled his eyes.

"No, Minerva, you found it boring, as did Tom, but that's quite all right. I think he wants to get to the reason I summoned you both."

"Yes, please do," said Tom, the ire in his voice obvious. "I have a class in ten minutes."

"I'm aware."

"As omniscient as ever, Dumbledore."

"Thank you." He looked at the pair intently. "Care to explain why Slughorn informed me of 'quite the delicious scene,' to use his words?"

"To explain that to you I'd need to know what you were informed of," Riddle said, his hand straying to Minerva's as he did so. She tensed, tendons and bones standing out on her slim hand, but she relaxed, letting him take it in his.

"You were -again, using his terminology- 'getting intimate' in your office, Tom." Dumbledore chuckled. "Forgive me, I just had a funny thought. Unrelated, of course."

Minerva blushed, and started to speak, but Riddle again interrupted. "Is that an accusation?"

"No, no. But if claims are made about you, Tom, I would think you'd prefer to know what was being said." Dumbledore was once again using his name more than strictly necessary, Riddle noticed with irritation, and was making accusations in such a roundabout way so as to avoid admitting to accusing him of anything afterward. It was very much his style, and if it were anyone but Dumbledore, Riddle would have appreciated it.

"Sir, we had tea in Tom's office, and we happened to kiss, and Slughorn walked in. It was completely innocent, I assure you." Minerva felt as though she was lying by omission, but she wasn't sure she could handle an indefinite period of back-and-forth between the men. "As far as I know, there's no policy forbidding it, though if there is..."

"Thank you, Minerva. I should like it very much if you would inform me should anything indecorous occur. There are young students in Hogwarts after all." Dumbledore's voice was gentle.

"Of course," she said softly.

"Minerva, you may go. Tom-"

Riddle was not in the mood for questioning, not when he had several of his own that he knew would not be answered. First of all, how the hell did Mr. Lowther befriend Fawkes? The last thing he needed was for his own creation to turn into a spy for Dumbledore. And second, there was that double standard again! Minerva would leave, and Riddle would get any consequences associated with Dumbledore's knowledge of The Incident, which was likely far worse than the truth, considering the information came from Slughorn. Naturally, Dumbledore was right to have a double standard, but it made things difficult for him, and Riddle preferred convenience. So he did the only thing he could: a righteous display of anger.

"I won't be accused in this manner," he said, tone wounded with an undertone of danger. "I am a teacher, first, last, and always. You should know better than anyone else, Dumbledore, how much this school means to me." He turned to where Minerva sat. "If you want slander, I'll give you all the slander you need and save you the trouble of supposing and creating events-" and he drew McGonagall up from her chair, kissing her forcefully, though toning it down in comparison to The Incident. He broke away, even as she responed, holding her in place by an arm wrapped firmly around her waist. "When my class begins, my students will find me composed and ready to reveal to them techniques for casting nonverbal spells." He turned to leave in a dramatic flurry of robes and overacting.

Minerva looked stunned, extricating herself from Tom's embrace and hurrying to the desk. "I'll calm him down, Professor."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Tom always was quite the actor. Be careful, will you, Minerva?"

"Certainly." She hurried after him.

Once the door closed behind her, Dumbledore summoned the toucan. "I need a spy," he began.

Minerva hurried into the DADA classroom, finding Riddle preparing for the class. "What is the matter with you?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Riddle inquired.

"Do you want to get us both fired?"

"He won't fire you, and if he tries to fire me, he'll have a difficult time going about it." His head snapped up from his papers. "Did you know that Dumbledore studied tropical birds? Because I certainly didn't." He wondered if Dumbledore had found his book.

"What? No, but that's not the point! It doesn't appear proper for us to-"

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'd like to do it again." He stopped speaking as the class filed in. "And if you share the same sentiments, you need only say so," he added in a low voice.

Minerva turned to leave, not wanting to interrupt. "I would prefer _ma mie_, if you are so fond of French."

"Excellent," Riddle said with a smile. "I'll expect you after my last class."

"I'll be there." Once the door shut behind her, he stood up and addressed his students.

"What do you all think of starting a dueling club?"

**A/N: I hope y'all like it! I wrote this for you lovely people during the wee hours of the night, fell asleep, and finished it as soon as I woke up! And if anyone has suggestions for where this story can go, leave them in the comments; I'm losing my train of thought. Cookies to anyone who found the Miss Jean Brodie reference!**


	10. Another Incident? Or Iviscrit has ADD?

A/N: Here is my attempt at carrying on a story I now have no idea what to do with. Suggestions are welcomed! I lost the funny, but I'll make it come back... I just really need a bridge chapter. Sorry. Thank you to Sachita for reviewing so promptly. You never fail to make my day with a review. :)

"Minerva, what do you think of this?" Riddle burst into her room, reaching into a pocket for the parchment forms he had filled out that morning. He had slept in, so naturally the writing was hurried, but it wasn't really an issue...

"Merlin, Tom, it's eight o' clock on a Saturday, can't you let me..." Her words trailed off as she pulled a pillow over her head, clamping down the sides with clenched fists. Her body twisted under the sheets into a more comfortable position, only to suddenly stiffen. Her eyes, obscured from Riddle's sight, snapped open. "Why are you in my room?" She flung the pillow off in a comical frenzy, hand scrabbling along her nightstand for her wand. (A/N: There's a cliche and creepy 'I was watching you sleep' Twilight line in there somewhere...but not today. :) Riddle observed that the room was sparsely furnished. The bed had white and red patterned sheets, and the only other furniture was a desk, the nightstand, and a dresser. Very little memorabilia was present as well, save a family picture and a photograph of a tabby cat. It didn't seem to fit her personality.

Riddle laughed. "Don't be a prude, Minerva. I can't help it if you don't lock your doors. Besides, I had an idea, and I need your help." The last few words hurt, especially since they were true. Riddle would rather give Dumbledore a full pedicure, complete with nail polish and top coat, than ask for help. He rationalized it, telling himself it was all part of the plan.

Minerva narrowed her eyes. "Regardless, it's highly inappropriate for you to be in my bedroom." She Summoned her dressing gown, tugging it on without leaving her bed, feeling oddly undressed despite her nightgown. "You had better have an _excellent_ reason for intruding, Tom, so help me..."

Riddle reached into his pocket, pulling out a roll of parchment. "Oh, but I do." He unrolled it as he handed it to her, wondering whether or not there'd be yet another intrusion. It was doubtful; if Slughorn had a habit of barging into a young female teacher's bedroom, it would give rise to a host of creepy problems. And not the kind of creepy' he was okay with. "I want to start a dueling club for the students."

She picked up her triangular reading glasses from the nightstand, rubbing her eyes vigorously before putting them on. "You woke me up early on a Saturday to look at your proposition for a dueling club," she said in a voice loaded with disbelief. She read the paper a second time and threw it aside, gazing up at him blearily. "There has to be more to it than that."

He smiled, sitting on the side of her bed. "Apparently. You have multiple scenarios. I'll offer the most ludicrous and the most likely. Scenario one: I'm a potential stalker and am using the dueling club as an excuse to get to you. In that case, I've already succeeded." He leaned forward, closing much of the gap between them to emphasize his words, amused when she inched away. "Scenario two -and far more likely- is that I need your help for reasons I'll elaborate later, and also found it an excellent opportunity to spend a few moments with _ma mie_ before beginning the day."

Minerva fell back on the pillows, exasperated. "Do you plan on elaborating any time soon? Or am I allowed to make myself presentable first, since clearly my plans of sleeping in are now hopelessly dashed?"

He shifted his weight, propping himself up on his elbows and bringing his face close to hers again. "No. Oh, I forgot to tell you 'good morning.' Good morning." Riddle smiled charmingly, knowing he perhaps appeared intoxicated with this drastic character change. Briefly, he wondered what would happen if Slughorn were to get wind of the new development. He was fairly certain this display would meet Dumbledore's definition of "indecorous" behaviour.

"Then I don't have time for this." Minerva slipped out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom, after yanking a fresh pair of tartan robes from the closet. "When I come out of here you'd better be gone, Tom!" she snapped through the closed door.

"Unlikely," he called back. "You're eager to hear what exactly it is that I need help with. You know it hurts my pride to...require assistance."

**Fast forward**

"I do not require assistance," Voldemort said coldly. Harry pictured Bellatrix withdrawing a helpful hand.

In the Battle of Hogwarts, McGonagall straightened suddenly, ceasing in her duel momentarily. "I feel...dramatic irony, Kingsley."

**Resume story**

She poked her head out after opening the door a crack. "What is it?" Her hair was free of its hairnet, loose and wavy from its imprisonment in a severe braid and repeated coiling to fit. It made her look much younger than the mid-twenties he knew her to be.

Riddle sat up and began. "I feel a dueling club should be brought back to Hogwarts. I think you'll remember during our time it was very popular. I can't imagine why Dippet terminated it."

"Perhaps he was appalled at your display of temper when I beat you in your sixth year." Minerva smirked.

His features stiffened into a grimace. "That was luck, first of all, and secondly, it was an anomaly." He shook his head, hand at the bridge of his nose. "That isn't the point. I don't think I can get it approved with Dumbledore as headmaster, so I want you to stand up for the idea. He'll listen to you."

Minerva tilted her head. "Why not?" she asked quizzically. "I think it's a good idea. It's not as though you'll be teaching serious curses or anything, just self defense and dueling for recreation."

"Of _course_," Riddle said, wondering how he could pass off naming the club the "Death Eaters Youth Movement" as "recreational."

Minerva withdrew her head, asking over the sound of gushing water, "Then what could be the problem?"

"Dumbledore doesn't like me. He's always had a prejudice towards me, though I can't imagine why."

Her laughter was misty through the water. "Perhaps it's that insufferable amount of self-importance you have."

Riddle frowned. "You secretly find it endearing. And I'm completely serious, Minerva. He genuinely can't stand me. He always did keep an annoyingly close watch on me at school, despite having no reason to do so."

"Well, then how will I be of any help?"

"He actually likes you," Riddle said. "I can't imagine why. Whatever could be appealing about a brilliant, beautiful young witch such as yourself?" He felt extremely cheesy saying this. _For the greater good_, he reminded himself.

The squeaking of a wet tap being turned was immediately followed by the gradual cessation of the water flow. "Very funny, Tom." Minerva stepped out of her bath, drying herself quickly. "I'll speak with him, but I still think you're overreacting." She toweled off her hair, bending forward and flipping the wavy, dripping mass off of her shoulders and back. "Assuming it's approved, when should we start?"

'We?' Riddle frowned. 'We' did not bode well for him. He had always made it a point to work alone, and never be in anyone's confidence. Then again, Minerva likely wouldn't go along with his "let's make out/by the way, help me with Dark Magic?" agenda if he excluded her from the dueling club, _especially_ if she got it approved for him. Mentally he weighed the implications the two choices would have.

The door opened, bringing a cloud of steam with the scent of citrus and spring rain. Minerva held a brush in her hand, hastily combing through her tousled hair, sending water droplets to the floor with every stroke. "Well?" She walked the her bed, sitting next to him. "When are we going to start?" she repeated. "You can't _still_ be upset about a silly duel from four years ago."

Riddle considered. He could always _pretend_ to need her, and in actuality disregard any help following the club's immediate passing. And if she became too much trouble -he rarely took a lover after all- he was sure he could blame a surviving family member or errant house elf for her untimely demise...yes, it was an easy enough Plan B, if a bit lazy. "Not at all," he said smoothly, taking a lock of her hair as he did so, twirling it between his fingers. "Your hair is still damp."

"I'm not comfortable with that, Tom." Minerva said, pulling away. "And you have yet to answer my question."

"Why do you have such an aversion to me touching your hair?" Riddle persisted. He tilted his head as he entwined his fingers more fully into her hair. "You aren't doing anything...immoral."

He had determined that Minerva was no different from other women, despite her certain unusual character traits -that irritating Animagus quality, for instance- and alternating between boyish charm and intensity would allow him his way. It was vaguely disappointing, though he supposed he should be grateful; it certainly made his life much easier, which meant convenience, and convenience meant he could go about his necessary Future Dark Lord duties rather than focus on winning over Minerva. And this all made for a happy Dark Lord. A sudden longing to visit the basilisk stuck him. No attacks could be made just yet, though, not when he had just returned. Although the prospect of having a good long chat over lady troubles was nice.

"That's not an answer at all."

"Impatient, aren't you?" he replied. "And we can start right away, I just need approval. Put yourself down as the teacher sponsor, and then I'll volunteer to join you, once it's approved."

"Fine," she said, laying back on the pillows demurely, her damp hair fanning out. She closed her eyes. "So I've been wondering."

"About?" he prompted, playing with her hair, clearly having no respect for Minerva's personal bubble.

"How did Fawkes befriend a toucan?" She opened her eyes. "Is it Mr. Lowther, back from the beyond?"

Riddle grimaced. "I haven't the slightest idea, but it's extremely likely. Lowther is an obnoxious devil though; it shouldn't be long before their friendship ends." He wondered whether his toucan would be used as a spy against him, now that it had befriended Dumbledore's pet. More importantly, if it _was_ in fact Mr. Lowther, how had his resurrection taken place? Perhaps Dumbledore knew more of Dark Magic than he let on, or, more likely, had preformed a reverse sort of Priori Incantato on the doorknob that was Mr. Lowther. Either way, if his own toucan was to be used as a spy, Riddle decided it would have to be silenced. Those cosy moments spent sharing grapes clearly meant nothing -though granted, he _had_ violently killed the bird- if the toucan was working for Dumbledore to make sure no 'indecorous' behaviour took place. And while he was on the subject of said indecorous behaviour... "Well, my agenda is served, so I now have time for more... pleasurable pursuits."

Minerva's eyes shut again. "How rude. You basically admitted that the purpose of this visit was to get your dueling club passed."

"Very astute, _ma mie_, but erroneous, I'm afraid."

"Must you use pompous words? Something like 'inaccurate' would suffice. Really, who actually uses 'erroneous' in conversation? Overcompensating for something, Tom?"

Riddle arched a brow. "Rather immodest of you to voice that idea."

"Touche. Why do I feel once we lose a topic of substance we revert to childish banter?"

"I'm not sure," he replied. "It does seem to be a precursor though."

"Precursor to what? Be specific."

"Why, a precursor to gossip-inducing scenes."

She opened her eyes. "And to think, I thought you a gentleman. Clearly I'm a poor judge of character."

"Perhaps, but you've had ample opportunity to expel me from your room, and you've done nothing. Not to mention you're armed and I'm not." He smiled. "I'm hardly a threat."

"Well, what are you waiting around for, then?"

"An invitation to proceed or forcible removal."

She smiled. "You actually wait for an invitation. How sweet. Proceed."

"No, I think I'm past that now." He felt like being difficult.

Her lips formed a petulant pout. "If you want me to beg I'm not going to. I have pride, you know."

"Yes, but I refuse to be framed. You already have a solid case for assault-" and he pointedly looked at her face, beneath his own.

"True, but it's of your own making." She raised herself onto her elbows, closing the gap between them. "There's a cliche in here somewhere, about how our banter ends like this every time," she said, her breath warm against his lips.

"I thought I'd already made that clear."

"Don't ruin the moment, Tom," she said, exasperated. "And keep it appropriate this time. I don't want you thinking I'm any..." she trailed off, casting around for a suitable word as Riddle renewed his attentions.

"Whore? Harlot? Floozy? You can stop me at any time, since we both know you're none of the above."

"Good."

"Except for that small issue that we're alone, in your bed, in your room, which is locked."

"Noted. And you've successfully made it sound scandalous." She sat up. "Shall we go ask Dumbledore to approve the dueling club now?"

Riddle found the parchment and closed her fingers over it. "Don't you mean 'you'? I thought we discussed this."

"Fine." She left him, her steps brisk. "Don't stay in my room all day." The door shut behind her.

Riddles eyes fixed on the flutter of wings at Minerva's window; the curtains weren't drawn, making the bird clearly visible to inhabitants. Surely enough, Mr. Lowther had alighted on the window ledge. Riddle swiftly opened the window and beckoned to the bird, sighing and grabbing the bunch of grapes from Minerva's fruit bowl when it rudely ignored him. Lowther had changed. His eyes gleamed with intelligence Riddle was sure wasn't native to the breed, and his eyes were green instead of black. "What has Dumbledore done to you?" he muttered, more to himself than to the bird. Lowther squawked in response. Clearly it was the begining of a conspiracy against him. Wondering how much the bird had seen, and suddenly reluctant to kill it, should things not work in his favor, he set it outside the window and left the room. He had exams to grade and scheming to do.

_Page break -haven't figured out how to yet_

Dumbledore waited at the window for the toucan to return, a bag of grapes in his hand. "Now tell me everything," he said. The toucan narrowed its eyes evilly. The foolish wizards felt that they had a grasp on events that had never been under their control.


	11. A Christmas Eve Cliche

A/N: Well hello. I hope the funny is back, and thank you SherbetKitty and Sachita for reviewing! This is fresh and unedited so pardon the length and any typos you may find. And so I give you...A Christmas Eve Cliche!

"You want to start a dueling club?" Dumbledore put down the papers Minerva had handed him and steepled his fingers, peering across at Minerva behind half-moon glasses.

"Ye-es," she said, drawing out the word. "It was very popular when I was at school, remember?"

"I see," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "And how will you go about teaching it? Its popularity will result in multiple student members. Can you handle them _all_? Alone?"

She felt as though it were a trick question. Naturally, as he expected, she would say something to the effect of 'Tom wold be more than willing to help' and Dumbledore would have misgivings -assuming, of course, that Tom was right. But she owed Dumbledore her honesty, so...

"Tom could help me," she said casually. "If needed, of course."

Dumbledore, to her surprise, smiled. "If Tom is to help you, I have no problems. But there are some conditions." He unstuck two lemon drops, offering her one. She took it, wincing at its sticky feeling from prolonged time in his hand. Dumbledore ate his lemon drop sagely, showing no signs of speaking soon, a look of absolute bliss upon his face. They continued in this manner for several moments until Minerva broke the silence.

"...Are you going to _tell_ me your conditions, Professor?" His habit of starting a thought and then zoning out was getting annoying, and she wondered if he did it for dramatic effect.

It wasn't working if he was.

"Yes." His eyes twinkled. "You are to remain the teaching sponsor, and only you. Tom may not become your equal. It's this or no dueling club."

Minerva was rather taken aback. Perhaps Tom _hadn't_ been exaggerating about Dumbledore's double standard. "Of course professor. May I ask _why?_" She hoped the explanation would assuage her doubts.

"If there's disagreement, it helps having one person in charge of the other," Dumbledore supplied helpfully. Minerva felt as though he wasn't telling her everything.

"All right. But the dueling club's a go?"

"Correct."

"Wonderful!" She beamed, genuinely excited. "I'll just-"

"Wait a moment, Minerva." Dumbledore gestured back to her armchiar. "Meet Fawkes' new friend." The toucan flew down from its perch on the bookshelf, green eyes aglow, and gazed at her knowingly. It seemed to smile with its beak. Malevolently.

"We've met. Hello there, Mr. Lowther." She smiled innocently and gave a small wave.

"You have? Did you meet this morning?" He frowned at the bird.

"No, Tom introduced us yesterday afternoon."

Dumbledore looked serious. "I see." He paused. "Minerva, I say this from a fatherly perspective. Please be careful. I'm not very comfortable about you and Tom, and if you ever need to talk, my door is always open. You know the password."

She smiled, touched, and a trifle guilty. "Don't worry about me, Professor. I can take care of myself."

Dumbledore stroked Lowther's inky feathers. "I would have changed the policy by now if I didn't have every confidence in you." He looked at her sharply. "You say nothing happened?"

"No. Nothing," she said firmly returning his gaze, looking away from his piercing blue eyes after a point. Inwardly, she wondered how much their tryst counted as 'something.'

"Then I'll leave it at that. And if you would keep an eye on how he interacts with the students in the dueling club, I'd be very much obliged to you." He stood, Lowther on his arm, and Minerva took it as her signal to depart. "If it won't interfere with your...relationship, of course." Was that a wink?

"Of course, Professor," she echoed. Smiling, she added, "and I won't mention it to Tom."

Dumbledore patted her hand. "Call me Albus, Minerva."

Page break

The Yule Ball, Riddle decided, was going to be an insufferable affair. He had thought an upside of Dippet's untimely passing would be the ball's cancelation, but there was no such luck. Dumbledore had made a bullshit excuse about how he "couldn't deprive the students." Instead, things would be "toned down." Bullshit, that's what it was. Complete and utter bullshit. Riddle was to meet the latest addition to the herbology department and help decorate the Great Hall for the dance that evening. This meant he'd have little time to spend on Minerva, and less still to open the chamber again. It was during times like these that he desperately needed an evil lair, a plush Dark residence with tasteful furnishings, a comprehensive library, and a cozy nook for a pet snake. Perhaps he could renovate the Chamber, and retire there after he conquered the wizarding world.

Yes, he had excellent taste.

When he reached the greenhouses, he beheld a petite witch, her back to him, presumably tidying up after a class. He cleared his throat.

"Oh, hello. I'm Pomona Sprout. You must be Professor Riddle. Very nice to meet you." She proffered her hand, which Riddle pointedly ignored, caked in dirt and Merlin knew what else as it was. Shrugging, the witch wiped her palm along her robe, gesturing to Riddle and saying "Come along, Hagrid and the trees are this way."

Riddle wondered where he had heard the name 'Pomona Sprout' before. As if reading his thoughts, she said, "You don't recognize me, Tom?"

"I'm afraid not," he replied.

"I suppose I look different," she conceded. "You look just the same. Minerva's told me so much about you. Well, she had written extensively about you in the last letter, anyway."

Riddle was suddenly uncomfortable. _Well, I may have majorly screwed this up._ "How do you know Minerva?"

"We've been friends since first year," Sprout continued, unperturbed. "I was hoping to see her today."

Riddle's mind raced. He forced his voice to remain civil as he said, "Dumbledore seems to have quite the habit of hiring Hogwarts graduates."

"Who else could know the school better?" Sprout shrugged.

As they decorated with the other professors –clearly summoned under duress, judging by their dull expressions- Riddle was newly aware of the unforeseen work being a professor would entail. He had exams to grade, generally from painfully incompetent students. Many a time he considered abandoning his pureblood campaign in favor of an anti-stupidity movement. They could terrorize London with complicated riddles and problems, eliminating anyone with an IQ below 115. And anyone with intelligence sufficiently close to his own would be subjected to testing. He couldn't have uprisings, after all.

Hagrid, now standing at ten feet tall, brought in the evergreens, one at a time, and Riddle was elected –to his chagrin- to climb atop the ladder and decorate the tops of the 12-foot trees. He wasn't quite sure what approach to take, not being much of a children's artist, but he had managed pretty well, eliciting coos and giggles from observing students and teachers alike as he conjured strings of pearly-frozen cranberries, kitten ornaments, striped candles, and enchanted ice faeries. Briefly, he considered decorating them in a gothic style, just to avoid the rather patronizing stares and laughter at his "snuggle-worthy" creations, but put that idea to rest quickly. He wasn't used to the decorating aspect of the holidays. As he finished the last tree, he prodded the stuffed toucan that someone with abysmal taste had decided would be a perfect Christmas tree topper. _It's a tropical bird. How does that relate to a winter holiday?_ Riddle's eyes suddenly widened.

A toucan. Again. Clearly it was no coincidence. Someone in the in the castle was watching his doings besides Dumbledore; being this obvious was not his style. But who? Clearly this was a force to be reckoned with; it was evident the mastermind was trying to psych him out, but what enemies did he have at Hogwarts, apart from the old man himself?

The bird -it wasn't stuffed, as it turned out- ruffled its feathers and leered. Its demonic green eyes made Riddle wonder what in the hell he had created. They stood, man and bird, watching each other carefully as the preparations around them ended and teacher left the hall. "This ends now, Lowther," Riddle growled. He reached for his wand.

Lowther smirked.

"What are you doing?" Slughorn looked at him curiously. "Are you feeling well?" Upon Slughorn's arrival, Lowther became still and acted as a stuffed bird once more.

Perhaps it was the fatigue, perhaps it was the stress, perhaps it was another chance lost, or perhaps Riddle was experiencing the male equivalent of PMS. Whatever it was, he lost it.

"SLUGHORN! He was _mocking _me and you ruined my chance to _kill _it! He- he- it's not just a stuffed toucan! It's a demonic spy! Alive, I tell you! Watch it, watch it! It'll move-" and he forced Slughorn to look, unaware of how clinically insane he appeared.

"...it's not moving, Tom."

"Yes," Riddle said darkly. "Devilishly clever, that one. I'll show him." He drew his wand, aiming to hit Lowther with a ball of fire. Slughorn grabbed his arm, ruining his aim, causing heat from the blast to sear his mustache, making it sadly diminished and further emphasizing the gelatinous nature of his face.

Slughorn's misery had a tonic effect on Riddle. He had forgotten how much the suffering of others brightened his days. "Terribly sorry, Professor," he said, though he looked anything but. He rolled his shoulders, feeling significantly happier. "I really needed that out of my system."

Slughorn forgave him, assuming it was nerves and overwork. "Get some rest, Tom. Or find Minerva." He winked. "I'm sure she'll help you...ah...relax."

"Hardly," snapped Riddle. He fixed the mustache. "And don't mention this to _anyone_."

"Dear boy, everyone has mental breakdowns. Yours has been long overdue," he chortled, despite his near miss during this particular 'mental breakdown.'

"Thank you."

"I'll leave now."

"You should."

"Come to my New Years party next week? You can bring-"

"Good_bye_, Professor."

Page break

Riddle leaned against the stone walls of the Great Hall, eyes closed. For the first time since his coming to Hogwarts, he felt physically and mentally exhausted. He had literally been on his feet all day, and despite his sleeping in, it did little to compensate for his staying up so late the night before. And to think, he had thought it a most excellent Saturday that morning.

Footsteps were audible and swiftly approaching, but Riddle didn't open his eyes, bracing his feet against the floor and trying to snatch a brief moment of rest even as his mind refused to. He would have to do something about Lowther, and quickly. He felt the old sense of alarm, that things were slipping out from his control, just as things had in his first meeting with Dumbledore, at age eleven. He'd have to come up with a solution and quickly. It wouldn't do to have a spy following him, not when he had decided to reopen the chamber -for recreational purposes, of course!

"Professor?"

Riddle groaned and opened his eyes. "What?" It was Fudge, a most irritating third year.

"There's a toucan in your office."

Riddle groaned again, dragging a hand over his face slowly. "And what am I to do about it?"

"I was just letting you know, sir," the boy said, uncomfortable. "It looked like it meant business."

Riddle left immediately, knowing full well Lowther would be gone by the time he reached his office, and naturally, he was right. Resigning himself to the fact that rest would not be his that day, he left for the grounds, settling for an old haunt of his, a secluded knoll now covered in unblemished snow, and waited.

Minerva was not long in arriving at the designated meeting spot, laughing as she plowed through, face pink and scarf blowing in the cutting wind. "You'll never guess what I saw."

"Mr. Lowther."

"Correct!" she exclaimed, leaping into the snow drift and effectively coating him in the powdery frost. "And the second he saw me, he seemed to smile, and then flew away." She laughed again. "What an odd bird."

Riddle made a wry face. "Let him catch hypothermia." He conjured a throw for them to sit on. "I hope you prefer this over Hogsmeade, because we very well can't leave the grounds with the Yule Ball only a few hours away." Minerva smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand.

"Oh God, I have to chaperone," she said, annoyed. "Please tell me you'll be chaperoning too?"

"Maybe." He had already been condemned to that unhappy fate, but she needn't know that, not when there was flirting material to be extracted first. "If I can be persuaded."

Minerva scoffed. "I feel like you're no longer interested in me for my conversation." She drew her cloak around herself. "I should have known, from this morning's display."

"Ah, but you enjoyed it," Riddle said, smiling deviously. "And if I weren't, I wouldn't encourage these little arguments, would I?"

"Of course you would, you know what they always lead to," Minerva retorted. "And it's usually you who initiates anything."

He drew out a slim box. "You really don't deserve this, considering you just implied that I-"

"Oh, you can't have gotten me a present!" she interrupted, looking sheepish and chagrined. "I certainly didn't think to get you one.."

Riddle took her hand, placing the box in it. "Yes, I'm a saint. You could open it now; I doubt you'll get a chance later tonight. It's also a brief moment for you to get your foot out of your mouth." He ran a hand along her skirt up from her snow-caked boot.

She kissed him lightly -after seizing his wrist. "I think I'll wait. You know, I'm not sure I want the faculty knowing, about all this-" she waved her free hand to illustrate- "with the exception of Pomona and Albus, of course."

Riddle frowned. "Slughorn likely has already told everyone. And you're on first name terms with Dumbledore, I see." He found the 'jealous lover' stereotype a most fun role to play, since he wasn't really the jealous type in these areas, considering he'd never been serious. Naturally, she bought into it.

"Don't be ridiculous, he's like a father to me."

"Dumbledore, I hope, and not Slughorn."

"That was a given, Tom."

There was silence for a while as they observed the last of the students staying for the holidays enter the castle over much-needed hot tea. "What did Dumbledore say about the dueling club?" Riddle asked.

"Oh, he passed it, but I'm afraid there's a catch." Riddle's head snapped up.

"A catch? What do you mean?"

"He insisted on me being the sole teacher sponsor." She shrugged, ruefully. "He doesn't want you in charge. Sorry, Tom, I'm afraid your little prejudice isn't entirely contrived after all."

Riddle quieted his urge to hex the man into oblivion, and shave off the ridiculous beard while he was at it to add insult to injury. Hell, he'd confiscate the lemon drops while he was at it. Instead, he laughed harshly. "Typical. He's in for a rude awakening."

Minerva sat next to him. "How so?"

He turned to face her. "Because, I happen to know how to persuade the witch in charge."

"You know, maybe he had a _reason_ for making you my subordinate." She smiled impishly.

"Doesn't matter," he said smoothly, taking her shoulders firmly in his hands. "You're so pliant, it'll be no trouble convincing you to make me the sponsor."

"Not in public, Tom. What if someone sees us?"

"I insist on being an equal, Minerva," Riddle said, ignoring her, instead moving a hand to cup her cheek. "And three people already know." He tilted her face up. "And we're hardly in public."

"I won't agree to it unless you stop." Minerva grabbed his wrist, but naturally his hand didn't move from her face, and his other traveled down to her back.

"I won't stop unless you agree." Riddle pulled her in closer. "If you want a battle -or duel- of wills, _ma mie_, I'm afraid you'll lose." His breath tickled, as he whispered, "Lose with some dignity."

"Now I have no choice but to discourage you, or you'll be insufferable." She attempted to move backward, and failed.

"Please, Minerva," Riddle said, opting for a softened tone. "Dumbledore doesn't need to know. It can be official between us." It was actually a brilliant move; she would be held accountable for anything questionable, and he was sure Minerva could be convinced that there was nothing wrong about his teaching at all.

"Are you referring to us, or the dueling club?" Minerva asked. Riddle started, jerking back involuntarily. Commitment already? He wasn't quite sure he wanted _that_ this early..

"What do you want me to be referring to?" he asked evasively.

"Hmmm. The dueling club." She smiled, as though she knew of his aversion to the the former, and intended to capitalize on it.

Riddle breathed a barely-audible sigh of relief, visible as it turned to smoke once it left his mouth. "Then it's the dueling club."

"We can be equals. And that's just because it wouldn't be fair to Albus for me to allow anything more. He trusts me." Minerva raised a brow. "Fair enough?"

"Perfectly," he replied, and kissed her. "And I told you you were easily persuaded, _minette_."

"I told _you_ not in public." She narrowed her eyes. "And I prefer _'mie_.'"

"I don't really give a damn."

"Watch the language. There's a lady present, I remind you." Minerva looked amused, despite her tone.

"A lady? Introduce us."

Minerva allowed a small smile. "Why do I even bother?"

"I should ask the same thing," Riddle replied, picking up the box again and placing it in the folds of her skirt. "Now get off me and open it; I want to see your face when you do."

Rolling her eyes, she did so, revealing a new quill, topped with a dyed eagle plume, and engraved with her name. "Oh, Tom," she breathed, "it's lovely." She picked it up carefully, and smiled. "And so practical, too." Her eyes softened. "Thank you. I really wish I had gotten you something."

"I think it writes in green." Riddle plucked it from her fingers, and secured it in her bun. "And I'm awaiting payment as we speak."

"Yes, and you'd be impossible to shop for, and I'm obligated to try now." She frowned at him, albeit warmly. "Makes my job harder."

"Allow me to suggest a gift," Riddle murmured, and kissed her again. "Am I clear?"

Minerva responded, and paused for breath. "You are ridiculous," she said finally.

Riddle checked his watch. "Should we head back to the castle? You have to get ready for the evening if you're going to chaperon."

"Have you been persuaded to join me?" Minerva stood.

"Not sufficiently." Riddle looked at her expectantly.

Minerva sighed. "Oh, fine." To Lowther from his vantage point on the turret, they seemed to be a Christmas cliche from a book: a kissing couple in the snow.

Lowther hadn't gone unnoticed though. He and Riddle had exchanged looks before Lowther cawed loudly and flew to the turret that housed the owls. What could the man do besides glower, with the lady so near? As Lowther alighted in the warm straw bedding of the owlery, he schemed. Humans were so easy to play off of one another.

**Hope y'all liked it. There will be much more of Lowther, and I promise to clear up what's going on with him eventually. **


	12. What a lovely plant

A/N: Hey all, it's Yule Ball time. Thank you to Sachita especially for the reviews, and everyone who favorited. This chapter isn't that funny, but I tried to insert enough cuteness to compensate. Hope you guys like it!

The bathroom hadn't changed much, Riddle noted, as his footsteps echoed on the dirty tiles. Quite literally, it looked as though it hadn't been cleaned since the little accident he'd brought about in his sixth year. He had never meant to kill the girl; he was well aware of what would stem from actual casualties. His inner sadist was content with Petrification.

Oh well. It wasn't very important anyway.

A whisper of parseltongue and a long slimy ride later, Riddle found himself in the all-too familiar surroundings of the Chamber. Seeing it again strengthened his resolve to renovate it. While he was at it, a decent entrance would be nice too.

"_Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four." _

The stone mouth opened, but no basilisk emerged. Riddle frowned. Surely someone couldn't have been there before him? And what good would it be? As far as he knew, he was the only heir of Slytherin... As if in answer to his question, a flutter of wings prompted him to draw his wand and wheel around, with a cry of "Immobulous!"

Lowther hung suspended in mid-air, frozen in flight, eyes livid. It was a most fitting moment for a dramatic soundtrack.

"Where is the basilisk?" Riddle demanded coldly, not realizing in his heated anger that _toucans don't talk._

Surprisingly, Lowther answered. "I don't know." His voice was high-pitched and hoarse, with the scratchy feel of a gramophone recording.

"Why are you helping Dumbledore?" Riddle asked, anger still in full flow. "Tell the truth."

"I'm not," the bird replied.

"Liar," he sneered. "We really must teach you a little honesty, Lowther. Crucio!" As he cast the spell, he allowed the bird to drop to the Chamber floor, writhing in agony, terminating the spell after what seemed to Lowther to be ages. "The truth, Lowther," Riddle said again.

The bird stirred and spoke, voice hoarse from screaming. "I'm just trying to get rights for sentient magical beings."

It seemed to Riddle to be the most ludicrous thing he'd heard in a long time, and he'd heard quite a few. The most preposterous (albeit amusing) had been Cygnus Black's insistence that he had _not_ missed the Death Eater meeting, he had acutally been there, and Riddle hadn't seen him simply because there was a large column in the dining room obstructing his view. He deserved points for creativity; they had met that particular evening in a graveyard, in an open plot of land. The stupidity of people often was appalling.

"You're telling me a doorknob I transfigured into a toucan hardly two weeks ago is a sentient being."

"I'm not the same toucan!" Lowther explained. "I'm actually a variety native to the amazon, known for qualities akin to Felix Felices, a potion I'm sure you're familiar with."

"I knew it," Riddle murmured. "So why are you in Hogwarts, and how did you get here?"

"All in good time. But Dumbledore is as guilty as other wizards of disrespecting magical creatures. He'll have his in due time."

"I'll let you live for now," Riddle said carefully. "If I catch you spying on me one more time, though, I will not restrain myself."

Lowther needed no other admonishment. He flew away, a toucan-shaped cloud in his wake.

Riddle looked for the basilisk, finding it curled up inside the mouth, too lazy to emerge. "I don't suppose you have that old diary of mine?"

_Minerva's Chambers_

A quick shower later, Riddle -devoid of any incriminating evidence of visiting dangerous magical creatures in a Chamber that was supposed to be sealed- paid Minerva a visit. He knocked on the door, smiling charmingly when she opened it. "I thought I'd pay a visit."

"Come in," she said, turning and grabbing a brush. "I'm just getting ready for tonight."

"Why don't I help?"

"If that's a dirty implication I'm ignoring it," Minerva said, "and besides, Pomo-"

"Is that what you're wearing?" He pointed at the conservative tartan dress hanging from the wardrobe doors.

"Yes, what's wrong with it?" she asked quizzically.

"Everything." Minerva frowned as he crossed to her closet. "I refuse to be seen with you if you insist on dressing like a woman twenty years your senior."

"You won't find anything to your liking," Minerva said smugly. "I make a point of only buying standard outfits."

"We'll see," Riddle said archly. He proceeded to wrench open the wardrobe doors, examining her dresses.

"Tom! Are you seriously rifling through my clothes?" Her voice was incredulously exasperated.

"Be thankful I'm not rifling though what you're wearing right now." He was sure to keep his voice smoothly casual, but a hint serious. Minerva blushed furiously, sputtering, as Riddle turned, smiling mischeviously at her over his shoulder. "What? I'm just being honest. It's been.. on my mind."

"Out of my room. If you're going to be disgusting, out of my-"

Riddle laughed, interrupting her mid-tirade, imprisoning her hands between them as he enveloped her in a hug. "Calm down." She struggled, twisting against him. Clearly she had no intentions of obeying. "I said calm down, Minerva. I was only teasing." His arms tightened around her. "Why do you insist on hiding your figure behind such hideous-"

"Have you quite finished dictating what I'm to wear?" Minerva snapped. "And I'd appreciate the use of my arms."

Riddle dipped his head, intending to kiss -and effectively silence- her when the door opened. Minerva smirked. "Oh, didn't I tell you Tom? Pomona will be helping me get ready for tonight. You must not have been _listening._" She smiled sweetly, placing her palms on his chest and pushing a very stunned Riddle away as his grip slackened. Sprout tried not to giggle as she watched.

"I don't want to interrupt, Minerva," she said, her voice choked from withheld laughter. "Go on."

Riddle brushed past the two women, pride severely wounded. He tried valiantly to cover it up. "Surprise me, Minerva. Sprout, please make sure she doesn't wear anything too... fifties."

Sprout frowned, confused. "But it _is_ the fifties."

"No, I meant in terms of age." He left the room, slamming the door behind him loudly.

"Don't break the door," Minerva called after him. "I can't help it if you're a control freak." She and Pomona exchanged looks and laughter, cut short when Riddle replied without missing a beat.

"No, that's for later tonight." And then, under his breath, "I win."

Minerva turned red. Again. "And this round goes to Tom," Sprout chortled. "You two aren't... intimate already, are you?"

"Certainly not," Minerva said briskly. "Don't insult me." She looked ruefully at her violated wardrobe. "Now Pomona -and I say this with no intention of sounding cliche- what on Earth do I wear?"

Sprout examined the clothes with mercifully clean hands. "Whatever looks nice. Let's start, shall we?"

_Yule Ball_

Riddle was not the type to pace anxiously while waiting. Nevertheless, he found himself doing so as he waited by the stairs for Minerva and Sprout. Sprout's very _existence _threw his calculations off. He couldn't use his multiple personas and cater to what each would expect, not if she were to become a permanent fixture. That would be contradictory, and Minerva would never go along with anythign even remotely twisted -magically speaking, of course. Since Minerva was the mark, however, and he was already two weeks in, he decided to go along with his original guise. He just had to get through the holidays, and the Death Eater's Youth Movement- oops, Hogwarts dueling club- could begin. He'd have to keep a close eye on Dumbledore as well, as the old man was likely keeping a close eye on him keeping a close eye on Dumbledore keeping a close eye on him keeping a close eye on Dumbledore... It was rather circular in concept. He didn't think Minerva would be reporting the details of their encounters to the headmaster; she was far too proper, even prudish, for that -though their rendezvous that morning and afternoon cast doubt on that. Regardless, he'd rather not give the man too much of a show. Slughorn, on the other hand... it always helped to have a supporter, even if the supporter in question was a most irritating specimen of walrus. And of course there was Sprout. She would likely be Minerva's confidante, if she wasn't already, and therefore would also have to be added to the "watch list." These thoughts on his mind, he waited by the banister, drumming his fingers against the polished wood in his impatience.

Minerva and Sprout descended the stairs in a most brisk, business-like manner for two women attending a ball. They were apparently deep in conversation, or were perhaps merely having a bitch-fest about the trials of being a chaperon. It was a tough call. Riddle's back was to them, but the sounds of their approach caused him to turn around and observe Minerva appraisingly. If her intent had been to thwart him by dressing unfashionably, she had miserably failed. Her dress was empire-waisted red crepe, stopping shortly below her knees. The neck was wide, with the appearance of being perilously close to slipping from her shoulders, and the sleeves were superficial flutters of sheer crepe. There was little embellishment, save a star-like gold ornament, appearing to hold up the gathers of her dress, allowing them to drape smoothly. The column of her neck was devoid of jewelry, and her sloping shoulders were bare, as her dark hair was pulled up into a French twist instead of her usual bun. As she turned her head to talk to Sprout, a loose curl fell across her collarbone, along with the ribbon tassel holding the hair up, bright red against the sable. Riddle was rather taken aback. As she neared him, he noticed she had even applied light makeup, and a delightfully fresh scent of citrus lingered in the air around her. He must have appeared sufficiently astounded, as Minerva laughed, saying, "Surprised?"

"If I say yes, it'll seem as though I don't find you this beautiful every day. If I say no, you'll accuse me of lying," Riddle replied. "I'll avoid the question entirely."

"And I'll take it as a compliment," Minerva said, winking at Sprout. "You know Pomona picked this out. Doesn't she have wonderful taste?"

"Certainly." Riddle inclined his head in Sprout's direction.

"You look nice as well," Minerva said, eyes flicking quickly over his body. "Very... dapper, I should say."

"Thank you." Riddle had never been a fan of dress robes -the styles for men were never very appealing, and bordered on effeminate, with all that lace- and he had opted for a black suit, leaving off the tie because damn it, dark lords are too good for ties. He offered Minerva his arm.

She took it, smiling. "Darling, aren't you going to complement Pomona, too?"

Riddle raised his eyebrows, a sardonic grin playing around his lips. "But I'm not _obligated_ to like I am for you, _minette_." He turned to Sprout. "Pomona," he began. The name seemed so foreign. He looked for something to complement.

Sprout -or Pomona, as he'd better get used to thinking of her- had showered, which in itself vastly improved her appearance. She had also worn a periwinkle blue ensemble, with just enough embellishment to set off her rather sparkly blue-grey eyes. But there was something very distracting about the getup...

"Pomona," he tried again, "what a lovely..." He cast around for something to complement, and landed on the single thing he couldn't- "plant." Mentally, he cursed himself.

Pomona raised her hand to the live daisy that appeared to have been uprooted moments ago. "Thank you. I love the earthy feel. And it's lovely having a daisy in winter." She gestured. "Shall we go in?"

Riddle walked in with Minerva, who seized the opportunity to whisper with more glee than was fair, "Plant? Really, Tom?"

"Stop breathing in my ear."

"Oh, it bothers you? Here." She raised herself onto her tiptoes, and blew in his ear quite deliberately.

Riddle turned his head quickly, and their noses brushed. "Stop."

She smiled, sweetly. "Make me," she whispered. She let go of his arm, and hurried over to Pomona, waving him over as the teachers were divided up into separate areas of the hall, and they waited for the students to arrive.

Three hours of handing out drinks to students and breaking up overzealous couples, Riddle frowned at his wineglass in distaste. "Problem?" Minerva asked.

"Obviously."

"What's the problem?" she pressed.

"This entire party. For the _students_." He snorted derisively.

"Dance with me. It'll take your mind off of-"

He looked around. "What happened to 'I don't want anyone to know about this?'" he asked. "And why aren't you with Pomona?" Minerva shrugged and gestured to the dance floor, where Pomona was doing a lively jig with a couple of professors, and took another sip from her glass.

"She's _dancing_. Like she's _supposed _to." Minerva drained her glass and attempted to set it on the table, missing it by several inches. Riddle hastily caught it, looking at Minerva with concern. She couldn't be...

"Are you drunk?" He kept his voice low, catching her elbow as she swayed.

"Certainly not," she snapped. Riddle didn't believe her. He leaned in, still holding her elbows, and inhaled slowly.

"You smell like firewhiskey." He found himself a bit relieved; he had found her "proper" thing a bit tiresome. "I'll take you to your room."

She pulled herself up to him, arms around his neck for support. "No, you're going to dance with me. I won't buy any 'I can't dance' excuses either, Tom, so move it."

Riddle was horrified with himself. He seemed to be growing morals. Ordinarily, if placed in this situation, every fiber of his being would be screaming for him to take full advantage of the fact that she was wasted and make her commit to anything via unbreakable vow, be it sabotage, treachery, or even something as random as crocheting. But for some mortifying reason, doing that to Minerva while she was drunk seemed... wrong. _No, not wrong_, he amended, _too easy_. A copout. Yes, he wasn't turning sensitive, he was just looking for the easy way out. Well, he couldn't have that. She'd surely see through it at some point, and then sabotage it in any way she could. She was a remarkable witch, after all. So instead of doing what the Voldemort of two weeks ago would have done, Riddle allowed Minerva to pull onto the dance floor, telling himself firmly whatever grief he would get for it later was for the greater good.

"Are you fit to dance?" he asked, placing one hand on her waist and taking the other in his own. "You're definitely not seeing straight, my eyes are a little higher up." He tilted her face up and their eyes met.

"Shut up, Tom. I'm perfectly fine. Now," she said, taking his shoulder, "waltz, or polka?"

"Are you coordinated enough for either?"

"Polka it is," she said, as though she hadn't heard. Riddle endured the dance, preoccupied with her sobriety, or lack thereof. She seemed fine, though, and perfectly comfortable with even some of the closer dances, something he hadn't expected of her. Perhaps she was a social drinker, and alcohol merely loosened her up? He couldn't say, though it seemed to be the case. Minerva was surprisingly graceful, even in her semi-intoxicated state, and they drew Dumbledore's attention more than once. Riddle was sure to appear attentive, which wasn't difficult, concerned as he was that she would lose balance and fall, but nothing of consequence happened. As they danced, Riddle looked around and for the first time appreciated the Great Hall, made festive for the holidays. The glistening candles, the streamers of tinsel, the strategically charmed ice sculptures, and even the students, formally dressed in various bright shades, brought a cheerful, warm ambiance to the room. Minerva looked quite at home in her surroundings, cheeks pink and eyes twinkling. After their fourth dance, she threw her arms around his neck, laughter coming in short gasps from the exercise.

"Let's stop, I'm going to pass out."

"I'm impressed that you haven't already," Riddle said, taking her hand and brushing his lips against it as he noticed Slughorn out of the corner of his eye. "How many shots of firewhiskey did you have again?"

"Seven, and I'm perfectly fine," she replied. "Don't pretend you didn't have as many. Walk with me?"

"I have, but unlike you, I can handle it. And I will, but only because you can't walk straight," he said, his arm around her waist again. "Let's check the grounds. Remember, not too long ago we were prefects catching amorous underlings in broom cupboards, and I won't be surprised if we catch students at it tonight."

"Yes," Minerva agreed, looking at him from under her lashes. "Balls always _were_ breeding grounds for... regrettable behaviour." She looked at him meaningfully.

Riddle passed it off with a laugh. "Merlin, you _are_ drunk, Minerva. You wouldn't be talking this way if you weren't."

"I told you I'm fine, Tom," she said with annoyance. "What's the matter with you? You're not yourself tonight."

"You're telling me," Riddle said, smiling. "I just don't want you to make a fool of yourself while intoxicated." To further his cause, he added in a hopefully sincere tone, "I'm worried about you."

She smiled. "That's so sweet." Her smile became mischevious. "And so unlike you."

"I have my moments." _My artificial, fabricated moments._

They were in the moonlit courtyard, cleared of snow and decorated with roses, poinsettias, and holly. He noticed for the first time that her eyes were green, a most beautiful green generated when he cast the killing curse. How ironically perfect.

"You certainly do," she said softly, lips slightly parted. A cool breeze lifted the few hanging curls from her shoulders, and she wrapped her arms around herself, stepping closer to him. As though he were a walking cliche, Riddle pulled off his coat, draping it over her shoulders as she pulled herself to him.

"Wait," he said suddenly. He strode over to a bush, muttered a quick "Diffindo!" and effectively humiliated the formerly unabashed -and miraculously unfrozen- fifth years. "Cadwallader, Macleod, get inside now. Detention to both of you, this Saturday." Ah, the joys of authority.

"I'll be happy if we don't see any more," Minerva remarked, as they walked through the courtyard after catching five more couples. "It feels almost hypocritical."

"Not really. Teenagers are notorious for this crap." He shrugged. "The difference between the smart ones and the dumb ones is getting caught."

"You speak like one with personal experience," Minerva said coyly. "Elaborate?"

"I don't think so." They stopped near the fountain. "Shall I leave you with Pomona?"

"No, but thank you."

"Should I leave you at your room?"

"That would be preferable."

"Shall I kiss you goodnight now, or later?"

"Now, if you please."

He had only intended a quick kiss, so Minerva took him by surprise when she showed him she had no such intentions. Behind a veil of green ivy, they conducted themselves like the students they had reprimanded moments ago. Finally Riddle broke away, resting his forehead against hers. "Merry Christmas, Minerva."

"Merry Christmas, Tom." Together they returned to the hall, where she ended up leaving with Pomona after all. "Good night," she said, waving casually as she and Pomona walked up the stairs to their chambers.

"Same to you," Riddle replied. Once he was back in the sanctity of his room, away from the chaos of house elves tidying up, he restrained himself from banging his head against a wall.

_What the hell just happened?_

**A/N: Ahahahaha. TBC on Voldy's thoughts on this matter. Hope y'all enjoyed it, this was hot off the presses, fresh and unedited because dammit I really wanted to write a Yule Ball chapter! Again, not sure where I'm going with this so suggestions are always welcome. Have a good weekend! And be so kind as to click that little review button there.**


	13. Lowther's Comeback and more OOC Voldy

A/N: Thank you to Sachita and Bambi for reviewing, and a long overdue thank you to everyone who favorited! Before we begin, Voldy here has a few words: *looks expectantly* Nothing? Okay... well, Minerva has a few words. *she is silent* Well, this is awkward... whatever. Again, apologies for the lack of Teh Funny. Onto the fic!

Minerva woke up with a hangover the next day. "Oh dear god," she muttered, holding a hand up to her throbbing temple. "That's the last time I have seven shots of firewhiskey." The light from the open windows seemed glaringly bright, and the chirping of birds outside seemed deafening. Pomona had been a saint though, going so far as to help her get ready for bed and even tidying up the room afterwards. It certainly hadn't been that clean when she had gone to sleep. She hoped she hadn't done anything ridiculously forward with Tom... she'd never hear the end of it from him if she had, after her 'not in public!' excuses. But then again, if she holed herself up in her room, she'd be amassing well-founded suspicion. If she needed to, though, she could always claim incapacitation from a brutal hangover... it wouldn't be too much trouble nor would it be particularly dishonest, but there was too much on her to-do list, so she steeled herself, gingerly crawled out of bed, and showered, wincing all the while at the over-obnoxious external stimuli. Well, it seemed overtly obnoxious to her.

Grading papers was the last thing she wanted to do on Christmas morning, but she was getting behind, so Minerva set off for the staff room after a quick visit to the Hospital Wing to do something about her headache. She settled into her favorite chair, and set about correcting mistakes. Perhaps she'd give a small curve. It was Christmas, after all.

As it was wont to do, her mind strayed to the previous night. Tom had been unusually attentive, and had conducted himself as the perfect gentleman, despite her giving him plenty of reason to do the opposite. It almost made her feel bad to be keeping an eye on him for Dumbledore, but then again, he wasn't exactly free of suspicious behavior. Besides, he had gleaned quite a bit of information about her over their time together, from her interests to a brief family background, and she still knew virtually nothing, except that he was incredibly smart, incredibly secretive, incredibly dramatic, and incredibly attractive. Oh, and he had anger management issues, she was quite sure of that, and a vendetta against Lowther the toucan. Why she couldn't imagine -Lowther was slightly creepy, yes, but not a big deal over all. Clearly, though, he and Dumbledore had a history that neither intended to share with her. It was really quite frustrating. Dumbledore wanted her to keep an eye on Tom, and Tom wanted her to work with Dumbledore in areas he could not, and neither of the men would tell her why they couldn't just do their dirty work themselves, or even why she was to do it for them. If it weren't for her own innate penchant for riddles, be they logical or interpersonal, she would have told them both to go to hell by now. Annoyances aside, though, Tom was quite fun to be around, and though she'd never admit it to him, she enjoyed the bantering, childish as it was. And even more than that, she enjoyed allowing him to think that she was completely taken in. It gave her more room to be a little manipulative herself. And since neither would tell her what exactly was going on, she'd have to find out on her own. Really, did he honestly think she had gotten into Magical Law through gullibility?

Still, her burgeoning relationship with Tom was still a source of preoccupation for other reasons. Minerva was not fond of the word 'lover.' It seemed to her too trite, too sentimental, and to take the word in the literal sense, too suggestive. Minerva McGonagall was not a suggestive woman; she prided herself on being rather up-front. When she was not in favor of something, she made it clear, and when she was, she made it still more obvious. And though for the most part Tom conducted himself as a gentleman, she could not help but feel wary. Tom wasn't exactly subtle in his intentions towards her, despite respecting her reluctance for the most part. More than anything else, Minerva saw herself as a teacher, and as one in the position of instructing young children, she could hardly set a poor example by undignified behavior, fun though it may be. And as a teacher, in a school with young children, she felt she had a responsibility to keep everything -from the insignificant to the eyebrow-raising- behind closed doors.

Despite being lost in thought as she was, Slughorn's entrance didn't take her completely by surprise, though it prompted her to jump a bit in her seat. She had rather wondered when someone would barge in, preferably to offer her wandering mind comedic relief or at least a reason to make a great show of grading papers.

"Are you very busy, Minerva?"

She pretended to look up at him in a distracted flurry of motion. "Not terribly." She kept her tone sarcastic. "Why?"

"I just wanted to let you know, I'm giving a party this New Year's Eve for the teachers and some old friends, and I would love for you and Tom to attend." Slughorn made no effort to keep neutrality in his voice, and suggestion from his eyes. "Convince him to go."

"Why do you assume I speak for Tom?" she asked. "Just ask him yourself."

"Ah, but my dear, you'll have more influence with him."

Minerva rolled her eyes. "Very funny, Professor. And I don't think I can anyway... there's that minor issue of me being way behind on grading," and she gestured to the papers strewn across the tabletop.

Slughorn frowned. "I'll see if I can change your mind yet." He changed the subject, abruptly. "Do you have any idea why Tom's developed that bizarre hatred for toucans?"

Minerva shrugged. "No clue. I think he actually made Lowther -that's its name- himself, and now Lowther insists on spying on everyone. It's rather tiresome."

"I'll see if I can track Tom down. Perhaps if we get rid of that toucan obsession, he'll pay you more attention, eh?" He winked. "But I don't think that'll ever be a major problem." Chuckling, Slughorn left the room. "Don't forget, Minerva, I expect you to be at my New Year's party!"

Minerva returned to her grading, feeling oddly refreshed. "Piss-off," she muttered, but there was no hostility in her tone, only amusement.

_Library_  
>Deep in the restricted section of the library, Riddle was slowly going insane. Well, figuratively, of course. To think that he, Lord Voldemort, could ever actually become clinically insane was a laughable notion. But it was starting to seem a plausible outcome as his frustration grew, becoming nearly insurmountable. There was no longer a single bloody book on horcruxes in Hogwarts. Nothing. Not a bloody thing. His first impression was that it had been Dumbledore's doing, but that seemed unlikely; he was quite certain the man had no idea about his horcruxes. The next suspect would naturally be Slughorn, but that couldn't be. Slughorn practically fawned over him, to the point of being annoying. And to think that the man would actually have the foresight to prevent him obtaining further knowledge of horcruxes was ridiculous. It was a testament to Slughorn's overfed complacentness that he had asked him about horcruxes nearly ten years ago, in the most abysmally unsubtle manner imaginable, and Slughorn didn't grow suspicious til the very end, when Riddle had thrown subtlety out the window (along with a good portion of his time). Then who could have taken the books? Perhaps they were being laundered? No, that was for money.. Perhaps...<p>

"Lowther," he said, eyes narrowing as he did so. His triumphant expression quickly turned to one of disgust. "I _am _going insane."

Riddle did not think himself a conspiracy theorist. Certainly he would devise long-drawn out schemes against other people, but no one had the wit or the patience to be an effective foil for him. Well, there was that small issue of Minerva.. she must be watched. There was great potential for her to become a great asset, provided those ridiculous morals didn't get in the way. Most gifted people had propensities for that, though why he couldn't imagine.

And while he was on the subject of Minerva….

He had a problem. She was officially the center of it. And Riddle was not happy about it at all. How _dare _she get drunk at the Yule Ball, and make herself pitiable? Any other day he would have taken full advantage of it and used it to further his own ambitions, and what did he do when faced with her appalling display of weakness? He felt concern, genuine concern, for someone other than himself. It wasn't that she prompted gallant behavior -that could always be justified as part of the plan- it was that she prompted softer emotions that bred weakness. It simply wouldn't do. Riddle didn't have time for that shit, and he certainly wasn't going to let himself turn sentimental now, not when he had so much to accomplish. Worse still, he couldn't bring himself to make her pay for her audacity because it really wasn't audacity at all. Wait,that made it even worse. Now, he was only going to punish people because they _deserved _it? That was something Dumbledore himself would promote. What had happened to him? What had happened to every action being aimed towards his long term goal? Riddle kicked the bottom of the bookshelf, swearing as he did so. Wonderful. Now he was throwing a temper tantrum in a manner akin to that of a small child, albeit silently, and it was all her fault. No, he couldn't blame her unfairly, she didn't know what she'd- damn it, he was doing it again!

"Fuck this," Riddle said aloud. "To hell with this." He needed a break badly, and he wasn't getting one here. And to think, he wouldn't have reached this metaphorical train station if his metaphorical train of thought hadn't been started by the not-metaphorical lack of horcrux books. And he still didn't know whose fault that was, which meant he had gotten nowhere.

Perhaps he could just go to Knockturn Alley, and meet up with some old acquaintances of his. It would mean he was in for a long day, and he'd get behind on grading, but he could likely catch up in an evening, provided he had no disturbances –something that was starting to look more and more unlikely. Nevertheless, it would provide him some respite and would be a better chance of getting necessary reading material that he was so deprived of. And as for grading, he could always rudely ignore Slughorn's insipid party and grade papers all night if he got too behind. It wasn't the best solution, but he doubted he could formulate a better one.

And so, with a significantly lighter heart, and a much clearer head, Riddle collected his things and his frazzled sanity and set out for Knockturn Alley.

_Order of Sentient Magical Beings of Europe, undisclosed location_  
>Lowther sat on the podium, as standing behind it was not an option. "Right. So what is our first order of business?"<p>

A rabbit hopped forward. "Reports of the crumple-horned snorkack uprising hasn't reached anyone of consequence in the wizarding world. Our spies tell us that a few Muggles witnessed the events, but they were quickly… disposed of."

"Was any memory modification necessary?" Lowther asked.

"No, sir."

"Good. Anyone else have something to report?"

A young owl stepped forward. "Mr. Lowther, sir, I have a question."

Lowther sighed. Things like this always detracted from valuable time. "Yes? Be quick about it."

"Why are we working to promote magical creatures' rights, but you're our leader, and you just live in Hogwarts, not helping with uprisings at all?" The owl frowned, thinking. "You're always first in line to promote the importance of magical creatures and how we don't get the respect and rights we deserve, but you're never actively helping! And you still haven't given a report on what's happening in Hogwarts, and what it has to do with our cause." The owl looked around, and saw the other magical creatures nodding. "What's going on, Mr. Lowther?"

Lowther's toes curled more tightly around the podium wood. His demonic green eyes flared in indignation as he seethed, listening to the owl's disrespectful drivel. "Take him away."

"But sir!" the owl cried, beating its wings in vain as two nifflers seized him and dragged him away. "Sir! Please, I'm sorry!" Lowther watched dispassionately.

"Does anyone else want to question my methods?" Lowther said in a voice of deadly calm. Not a single animal batted an eye. "No? Good. Let's resume. Otis, any news from our sister organization in the US….?"

_Some bar in Knockturn Alley_  
>"...and that's why I went to Hogwarts," Riddle finished, taking a sip of absinthe as his followers looked on admiringly. "So, what do you think?"<p>

"I can get you the books right away, my Lord," Cygnus Black said, only to be cut off quickly.

"I told you not to refer to me by that name in public," Riddle snapped. "Knockturn Alley or no, we aren't in a safe location to bandy even minor information about. Now, you were saying...?"

"I can see to it the books are sent to your rooms in Hogwarts," Cygnus continued. "Your mail won't be intercepted, will it?"

Riddle laughed. "I should think Dumbledore knows better than to intercept my mail. I won't hesitate to make a legal case out of it, and he knows I'm not ignorant of magical law." He paused, draining the glass before he continued. "Yes, go ahead and send them tonight, but have them delivered directly to my room. I'll only attract attention if they're delivered with the rest of the morning post." He looked around the room. "But Cygnus, enough about me. How's the baby?"

"Little Bella is doing quite well," Cygnus said, smiling as he thought of his daughter. "You must come and visit whenever you aren't too busy."

"Certainly," Riddle said smoothly. "Baddock, talk to Malfoy for me. He's hesitant to let Abraxas join... you know. He's concerned that he's too young."

"I thought the dueling club would solve for that, Tom," Baddock said, confused.

"Yes, but that plan has to be long term," Riddle said impatiently. "I'm not officially in charge of that."

"Not in charge?" Cygnus asked incredulously. "Who else would want a dueling club started?"

"No one," Riddle explained. "I had Minerva sign on, since Dumbledore would never allow me to. He has some irrational fear that I'll...oh, I don't know...start an army, or something." He smiled, sardonically. "Ridiculous, isn't it?"

Cygnus frowned, thinking. "Minerva McGonagall? What does she have to do with anything? Is she at Hogwarts too?"

"Yes," Riddle said, tone carefully neutral. "She's the transfiguration professor now."

"And why is she in charge of the dueling club?" Dolohov had spoken.

"I just explained that," Riddle said with irritation. "I'm not in a habit of repeating myself, and I don't intend to start now just for you."

"All right, then how will the dueling club serve to build an army with her as the sponsor?" Baddock asked. "Wasn't she Head Girl our sixth year? And a tremendous teacher's pet?"

Riddle smirked, running a long finger around the lip of the glass. "I don't think that will be a problem anymore. She's very...easy to persuade."

Cygnus and Baddock exchanged looks. "What do you mean by that, Tom?" Cygnus asked. "Or are we not allowed to-"

"Suffice it to say she's very open to suggestion." Riddle said, a small smile still present on his face. "That's all you need to know. And believe me, more than anything else she's going to further the cause. And if she's a hindrance.. well, there are ways around hindrances."

"I never would have imagined you and McGonagall," Dolohov said slowly. "How's Slughorn taking it? I think he was angling for you two to get together during the Slug Club days, something about Hogwarts' 'best and brightest' or something like that..."

Riddle's face soured. "Slughorn," he said slowly, "is as insufferable and meddlesome as always. But he may prove useful later, so it helps having him on my side." He stood up. "Gentlemen, I'll see you hopefully next week. I have some matters to attend to at the school, and right now they take precedence even over this." He turned to go.

"I wonder if _Minerva_ counts as a pressing matter," Baddock said slyly once he was convinced Riddle was out of earshot.

"Immobulus." Baddock froze.

Riddle wheeled around and stalked back to the table. "I am not going to suffer flippancy from you, Baddock. Contain yourself."

"Y-yes, my Lord."

"Let this serve as a reminder." Riddle wrenched back Baddock's left sleeve, baring the Dark Mark on his left forearm. He pressed his wand to it, and Baddock's fist tightened and his jaw clenched as a searing pain slowly wormed its way along the lines of the snake and skull. "Lord Voldemort is not to be trifled with," Riddle said softly. "See it you do not forget." He straightened. "Good evening." The table was silent until the door shut behind him.

"Wonder why that got him so angry," Cygnus mused. "All right there, Malcolm?" Baddock nodded slowly, gripping his arm just above the Dark Mark.

"Because." Everyone looked at Dolohov. "Clearly, McGonagall _is_ the pressing matter. He wouldn't have done that if it wasn't the case."

But since it was Dolohov who had said it, everyone blew it off and nothing more was said on the subject.

_Riddle's Chambers_  
>Riddle returned to Hogwarts by evening, pleased to see that Cygnus Black had come through for him; the package, unobtrusive in its brown paper wrapping, sat on the window ledge outside his room. It was only a matter of minutes before he had unwrapped the books, and sprawled across his bed, the books strewn around his normally immaculate bedroom. He was well along in his reading before he realized he hadn't had dinner nor lunch. He briefly considered going to the kitchens and getting something to eat, but decided against it, determining it to be a waste of time on an unimportant task. But as he read on, Riddle began to grow irritated. When would he come across something he didn't already know?<p>

A knock at the door diverted his attention from the books. "Can I come in?" the voice called. It was Minerva.

"Damn it," Riddle swore under his breath. "I don't know if you can," he called back, hastily stuffing the books and ripped paper under the bed and inside desk drawers, "but you have my permission to try." He seized a sheaf of exams, sprawled across the bed again, and started grading, forcing his breathing to slow back down to normalcy.

The door swung open. "Very funny. You'd make an excellent elementary school teacher." Minerva peered over his shoulder. "You're starting only now? You had all day."

Riddle turned his head to look up at her. "I just can't prioritize as well as you, _minette_."

She sat, interlacing her fingers and resting her chin on top of them on his shoulder. "That's a damn lie. You just have different priorities than I do." She waited for him to reply, but there was only the sound of his quill scratching across the parchment. "Tom. Are you listening?"

"Certainly," he replied. "I am capable of doing two things at once, thank you."

"Hmm." Idly, she ran her hand along his arm in an absent minded caress, feeling his muscles tense up momentarily under her light touch. "I read once that multitasking results in you doing both activities with less concentration, and the end result is poor in both." She smiled, out of his line of sight, as his eyes flicked towards his arm, jaw clenched, and he forced himself to relax.

"Did you, now." Riddle tried to ignore the sensation of her hand gliding over his arm, straying more than once. It was most distracting. He considered voicing it to McGonagall so she'd stop, but thought better of it, realizing he'd only prove her point of multitasking being ineffective. Forcing himself to focus on the papers before him, he asked casually, "So I take it I should stop talking to you and solely focus on grading." He looked up at her. "Is that what you're saying?"

"Or," she replied, coming to rest on her elbows alongside him, "you could grade papers tomorrow morning, and give me your undivided attention now."

Riddle chuckled. "Oh, irony. Ordinarily I would be the one telling _you_ that."

"Yes, and since we're encountering some role reversal here, this is the part where you half-heartedly agree." She waited, expectant.

"Not full role reversal, I'm afraid," Riddle said, eyes determinedly not leaving the papers. "Forgive me for saying so, ma minette, but you lack my powers of persuasion.

With a surprising display of cat-like agility, Minerva pushed his papers aside, sweeping them off the bed, and placed her cool palm along his cheek, forcibly turning his face towards her. "You're probably right. I suppose blunt obnoxiousness will have to be my modus operandi instead."

Riddle looked at the scattered papers, peeved. "You have my whole and undivided attention, my lady, though it was...forcibly taken from me."

Minerva frowned. "What a cold response. I think I prefer you livid, Tom."

"You'd rather I be dangerously angry with you?" He smiled, eyes glinting. "It can be arranged."

"Anything is better than aloofness," Minerva replied. Her hand resumed its attentions, this time along his hollow cheek. "Perhaps I should have said 'impassioned,' not 'livid.'" She couldn't contain a smirk when a very palpable shiver passed through him as her fingernails gently scraped along his jaw line.

Riddle shrugged her hand away. "Now who's being forward," he murmured, imprisoning her hands by taking a slim wrist in each of his own.

Minerva felt her breath catch in her chest. He was very close now, suspending his weight on his forearms as he looked down at her. She wondered if she had actually angered him. "No need to crush my wrists, darling. I'm losing feeling in my fingers."

Wordlessly, he dipped his head down and kissed her, hands leaving her wrists as his long fingers entwined themselves into her hair. Minerva could feel his breathing quicken, and raised her head up a bit higher to meet him more fully, hooking her arms around his shoulders. She was breathing quickly as well, she knew, but her breath seemed to belong to someone else, even as her lips formed his name. He wasn't unaffected either, she could tell, something she was pleased to note. All too often, Riddle was very collected, seeming to calculate everything he did even in their time alone together, making this a welcome change. She aware of the hike in his temperature and heartbeat as her own hands pulled them closer together, and in a corner of her mind, she felt surprised by her behavior.

Riddle broke away, his breathing still a bit ragged. "Satisfied?"

Minerva smiled. "Potentially. You taste like raspberries, by the way. Did you know?"

Riddle ignored the comment and rolled off her, on his back as her fingers traversed his face again. His hand found her hair. "I see why you want things private now."

"Really?" Minerva asked. "That's great. Why?"

"Because." His eyes fell shut. "I'm imagining Slughorn's reaction. And that alone is reason enough for me to keep this behind closed doors."

**A/N: Threw this bit in for a friend who challenged me to write a bit more romance. Hope you're happy with it, this is most out of character for me. Until next time... Oh, and be so kind as to review. It does wonders for an author's self esteem. ;)**


	14. Even MORE ooc Voldy

A/N: Thank you to , mewmewvern, Sachita, Aquitane, and Slightly procrastinating. You guys are the best. Also, to my friends who are reading this, you have no idea how much I appreciate you dealing with my incessant reminders to read my crap. You guys are the best. Now on to the fic!

Riddle woke up with a peculiar soreness in his neck, which he only exacerbated when he curiously rotated it. He clapped a hand over his neck scowling, wondering how he could have sprained it. His eyes fell across the papers on his lap, the quill which had left a large inkblot on his sleeve and hand, and Minerva, still asleep against his shoulder. _And that explains everything_, Riddle concluded as he continued to massage the sore muscle, exhaling slowly as he did so. Clearly, he had fallen asleep sitting up at some point while grading, and she just hadn't bothered to leave. Gingerly, he moved his shoulder away, working carefully so as to not disturb her, and set about organizing his papers and safely hiding the books Cygnus had sent. He had been finished for a while and was at his desk, all grading newly completed, when Minerva finally stretched and opened her eyes, heavily lidded from sleeping. It was reminiscent of a young kitten one of the children at the orphanage had, Riddle thought smilingly. Except that he had deliberately made the kitten walk into a nearby pond to its fluffy doom, when he was still finding out about his powers and wanted to try them out. Perhaps that wasn't the best comparison.. Oh well.

"What time is it?" Minerva stretched, again reminding Riddle of a cat, and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

"Probably eight, or eight-thirty at most."

Minerva dragged herself up into a sitting position. "Finished yet?" She waved vaguely towards his papers.

"Nearly ten minutes ago."

She collapsed into the pillows again, face first, her black hair puddling around her and obscuring her face. "I'm _tired_."

Riddle laughed. "I know."

She made a muffled noise that he took to be her reply, rounding and straightening her back as she did so. Turning her head, she repeated more clearly, "Would you object to me using your shower?"

Riddle was surprised, finding her behavior most uncharacteristic, but acquiesced. "Go ahead."

She stood, still bleary-eyed. "It's the only thing that'll wake me up." She set off for the bathroom, missing the door and nearly walking into the wall. Riddle hastily stopped her.

"Watch where you're going."

"Whatever," she retorted, making it into the bathroom safely and locking the door. Ten minutes of hot water and a much clearer mind later, Minerva realized she had forgotten something very important. "Tom," she called with trepidation, "could you get me-"

Riddle rolled his eyes and left before she could finish her sentence, returning with her clothes. "I'll wait outside," he told her through the door. "Your things are on my bed."

"You're a saint, darling," Minerva replied. "No sarcasm either, promise."

Riddle felt conspicuous, standing outside his own room in such a disheveled state. Of course, only one thing could make this turn of events problematic, but what were the odds of Slughorn showing up at these hours? The man hardly woke up before 8:30, and that was on school days. Naturally, despite his newfound sainthood, luck was not with Riddle that morning, as Slughorn, wearing a ridiculous velvet robe and slippers, waddled down the hallway. Riddle leaned against the wall casting his eyes skyward in disgust, banging his head against the doorframe as he did so. "Why does this always happen to me?" he muttered.

"Tom! What are you doing up like this?" Slughorn's eyes took in the rumpled shirt, the inkstain, the mussed hair, and the obvious red mark across the side of his face, likely the result of Minerva's head on his shoulder for a prolonged stretch of time. In fact, the only thing Slughorn didn't take in was the murderous ire in Riddle's eyes.

"Just waiting," Riddle said blandly. "What are you doing up before nine?"

Slughorn ignored the veiled insult, or perhaps was too thick to comprehend it. "I went to bed early last night. I can't say the same for you, though. Where were you all day?"

"Avoiding you." Riddle said quite seriously, smiling when Slughorn's grin seemed to waver. "Joking, Slughorn! I had business in London."

Slughorn relaxed, clapping Riddle on the shoulder. "Of course, dear boy, of course." He looked at Riddle curiously. "But why are you out like this?"

Riddle shrugged. "My room is occupied at the moment." He rapped on the door sharply with his knuckles. "Are you nearly finished?"

"Almost!" was the faint reply.

Slughorn's grin began to widen. "Who's in your room, Tom?"

Riddle gave Slughorn a pointed look as the door opened and Minerva stepped out, hair still damp. "All right, the shower is all yours... oh. Hello, Professor." She threw Riddle an irritated glance, returning her attention to Slughorn. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

Slughorn's eyebrows were making themselves insufferable yet again, and he made no effort to restrain himself. "I already explained that to Tom here." He paused, apparently trying to form words through his glee. "So, ah... what exactly... um.."

Ignoring him, Riddle twined a damp lock around his finger. "Trying to catch pneumonia?" he asked her.

"Yes, yes I am." Minerva snapped his wrist with her fingers. "Stop that."

"You didn't have a problem with it last night."

"Tom!" She looked scandalized, eyes flicking towards Slughorn. "Excuse us, Professor." Smiling fakely over her shoulder, she dragged Riddle away by his shirt front, stopping a few feet down the hall. "What the hell, Tom. What happened to 'I'm imagining Slughorn's face and that's reason enough to keep things private'?"

"Sorry, minette," Riddle said. "Lost myself there for a minute." They both glanced toward Slughorn, who seemed unfairly amused. "You really should go dry your hair, though."

"I thought you preferred it damp."

"I do. Do you want me to keep my hands out of it, or not?" He gave her a significant look.

She nodded as comprehension dawned on her. "Fair enough." They returned to Slughorn. "Sorry about that," Minerva said casually.

Slughorn mercifully didn't comment on the little display, instead reaching into his robe pockets, pulling out two invitations. "You know what these mean," he said in a sing-song voice.

Riddle ignored the outstretched invitations, instead wrapping an arm around Minerva's waist. She tensed, momentarily, but quickly relaxed against him.

"Give me one good reason to attend, and I'll...show up." He looked at Minerva. "Guest in tow."

"You don't speak for me," Minerva returned. "This isn't the nineteenth century."

"Touche. Well, Slughorn, still waiting on a reason...unless you don't have one," Riddle said fairly insolently.

Slughorn frowned, thinking. "There'll be absinthe?"

"Not good enough."

"There'll be the head of the Department of Mysteries?" Slughorn supplied. "We're friends from long back. I know how much interest you've expressed in that department, Tom."

Riddle considered. He was quite confident that he could gain something from this connection if he was careful. "Perhaps." He took the invitation. "How about it, Minerva?"

"You're so easily influenced Tom, it's not even funny anymore."

Riddle's hand, unseen by Slughorn, lightly trailed down her back. "Hypocritical of you to say that." Lightly, he reached around to her wrist and slid his hand up her arm, slowly and deliberately. He felt goosebumps erupt under his fingers. "I'm going to ask you again. I'll even say 'please.' Well? What do you say?"

"Fine," she said flatly. "No guarantees, though, in case I suddenly change my mind."

"There won't be any of that!" Slughorn said happily, giving her the invitation. "Now, why were you in Tom's r-"

"Say one word more, and I'm tearing this up."

"Fine, fine," Slughorn said laughing. "Calm down."

"Well." Riddle let go of Minerva, handing her his invitation to hold. "I'm going to go and shower now." And that he did, taking far longer than was strictly necessary, savoring the solitude as long as he could. Though he was starting to enjoy -rather than tolerate- Minerva's company, he still preferred to be left to his own devices more than anything else. It was fortunate that the object of his supposed affection was fiercely independent; it saved him the trouble of being overtly attentive. Stepping out, Riddle realized he had missed breakfast, and then found he was too lazy to do anything about it. He had intended to bypass the Great Hall entirely, and instead go straight to the Chamber, but to his dismay, he was accosted by Minerva, Lowther perched on her finger.

"You!" he exclaimed, surreptitiously reaching for his wand. "Minerva, why are you fraternizing with the enemy?"

Minerva laughed, tapping the toucan on its beak. "But he's a cutie." Riddle's eye twitched involuntarily. "Oh, darling, don't be jealous." She stepped forward to kiss him, but Riddle leaped backward.

"No! Nothing in front of that...thing," he spat, keeping his wand trained on the animal. "I told you, Lowther. I won't have you spying."

"Tom, what is the matter with you?" Minerva demanded, shielding the bird with her body. "You're acting crazy. Stop it."

"Minerva. Do you care about my sanity?"

"I- of course, but-"

"Then give me that damn bird and leave me alone." Lowther tried to fly away, but Riddle immobilized him wordlessly, turning back to Minerva and grabbing her shoulders. "Give me the bird. This has to be dealt with."

Minerva recoiled slightly, fear beginning to rise. "Tom, relax. You're not yourself right now."

"Don't make me do something to you I'll regret later, Minerva." His grip on the wand tightened. Minerva could have sworn his eyes flashed scarlet.

"That's what I'm trying to do!" Minerva was against the wall now, and denying that she was afraid was officially useless. "Tom, you're starting to scare me. Let go."

Riddle released her, forcing himself to calm down.. "The bird, ma minette." Gently, he brushed his lips to her temple as his free hand stroked her cheek. "I'm sorry if I frightened you," he whispered against her hair, rolling his eyes as he did so. _Merlin, the cheese._

"Take it..." Minerva said, still unnerved despite the gesture. "Merlin, Tom, don't do that to me again!"

"I won't. In fact, I'm about to get rid of any possibility of it happening again." He looked darkly at Lowther, picking up the bird by its feet with obvious distaste.

"What are you going to do to him?" Minerva asked. "Albus won't be amused; Fawkes and Lowther are friends."

"I won't do anything unless it's absolutely necessary," Riddle said. "You have my word. Do you trust me?" He tried to convey sincerity with his eyes. He did pretty well, too.

"Of course I don't." Apparently not well enough.

"Sounds fair," he conceded nonchalantly. "I'll fix that with time." He pressed a hurried kiss to her cheek and left, pace redoubled as he headed to the Chamber entrance, Lowther swinging comically from his hand.

Minerva leaned against the hallway's stone wall, stunned and still a bit shaken. _I think I see why Albus told me to be careful..._

_Chamber of Secrets _

"Finite Incantatum," Riddle murmured. "_Back up, I can't see what I'm doing with your shadow,_" he said to the basilisk in Parseltongue, who was watching curiously over his shoulder.

"_Sorry_," the beast replied, and slithered backwards. The sound of its scales sliding over the stone floor, littered with the skeletons of small rodents, made an unpleasant grating noise.

Riddle gritted his teeth at the din.

"Now Lowther," Riddle said dangerously, "I'm going to interrogate you with something more effective than torture. And if I don't like what I hear, I will have nothing more to do with you. And I'll achieve this by getting rid of our interaction in the most permanent and effective manner possible. Understand?"

The bird nodded. Riddle pulled the vial of Veritaserum from his pocket, and forcibly emptied the clear, water-like contents after forcing Lowther's beak open. Riddle was disappointed; Lowther had made no effort to resist. The bird seemed to have given up and resigned itself to its unhappy fate. It was a pity. Half the fun in operations such as these was the gradual destruction of the victim's defenses. Rather like his scheme involving Minerva... wait, how had she entered the subject at hand? She was starting to enter his thoughts a bit too often for his taste...

"_Hold him_," Riddle ordered the basilisk, and before long the trembling bird was ensconced between massive coils of dingy green scales. "Now. Was your ridiculous story about the... Order of Sentient Magical Beings, was it? Was that story true?"

"Yes."

"Really?" Riddle was surprised. "Do you have any rank in this organization?"

"Yes."

Again, Riddle was surprised. "...what is your rank?"

"Supreme overlord." The birds eyes were demonically glowing again; they seemed to do that when Lowther was angered. Riddle decided to ask more calculated questions.

"Are you helping Dumbledore? If not, elaborate."

Loathing in his eyes, Lowther answered. "My organization is allied with the goblins and the dementors. We tire of wizards presuming to be the sovereigns of the magical world. A rebellion is currently underway, and I hope to get information on Dumbledore through Fawkes." His expression became still more malevolent. "You aren't the concern, Riddle. Dumbledore and the one rumored to challenge his power, Lord Voldemort, are. I'm only pretending to spy on you to appease the old fool. He seems to find you a threat."

Riddle kept his face impassive at the mention of the name 'Lord Voldemort,' but he was significantly shaken. He was annoyed as well by Lowther's implication that he wasn't a threat. "And why have you taken the name Mr. Lowther? Or is that coincidence?"

The bird shrugged as best as it could, wings pinned down by several pounds of basilisk as they were. "My actual name is Gordon. I went along with Lowther because I'm a huge fan of 'The Prime of Miss Jean Brody*.' It's my private shame." It appeared to smile, despite the situation it was in. "Your girlfriend looks a lot like the lady on the cover."

Riddle didn't bother to ask how exactly the toucan learned to read, nor why a toucan from the Amazon had a name of Scottish origin, and was living in Britain. There were more important matters to focus on, such as how the toucan got its information. But there was potential here...

"Lowther -or Gordon, as the case may be- I want nothing more than to see Dumbledore taken down a notch."

"Do you now."

"Yes," Riddle said, mind racing. "But as I've proved multiple times, you're making an enemy of the wrong man. You haven't stopped your meddling, and I doubt you ever will learn. So I'll give you a reason to obey, even if you won't remember it once all this is true." Wordlessly, he cast the Cruciatus curse again, his smile twisted in the dim lighting of the Chamber. Lowther's screams had an eerie, raw, animal quality about them, something very different from the too common screams and pleas from the numerous humans who had been in his place. Riddle ended the spell and Lowther made no effort to move, lying prone on the Chamber floor, blending in with the dark rubble that surrounded him. "And here's another reminder for you," Riddle said still more softly, smile turning still more sadistic. "_I_ am Lord Voldemort."

Lowther's eyes widened in fear as the horrible realization dawned on him, and Riddle laughed mirthlessly. "Yes, Lowther, you're messing with the wrong man. But of course, you know too much, and I can't afford you letting something slip to Dumbledore. Poor little bird," he sneered, drawing his wand again. "You really shouldn't interfere with _wizard_ matters."

"Are you going to kill me?" Lowther gasped.

"Kill you? No, no. You may prove useful later. I'm going to modify your memory. Obliviate!" Riddle smiled cruelly as the charm's force put the bird in a dead faint. "_Give him air,_" he told the basilisk curtly.

Lowther's speech, though alarming, had provided Riddle with valuable insight. An alliance with the goblins probably wasn't worth it, but that Order was onto something if they had allied themselves with the dementors. He would have to look into this. He could also begin an alliance with the giants in the north; he was quite certain that was unprecedented by wizardkind. He related these thoughts to the basilisk, who listened in amicable silence. "_So...what do we talk about now?_" the basilisk asked once Riddle had finished.

"_Well… you could listen while I complain about lady problems_," Riddle said with a frown.

"_I'm listening."_

Riddle sighed, leaning against the basilisk's coils. "_You're a good friend._"

_Hogwarts Grounds_

The soft carpet of grass was blanketed in snow, but it was no longer the pristine white sheet it had once been. It was trampled in many places, and littered with the smashed remains of snowballs from countless snowball fights. The sunlight gave the sparse patches of unmarked snow a twinkling sheen, casting an almost blinding white glow on the snowy expanse. Riddle and Minerva made a stark contrast as they walked through the snow, Minerva warmly attired, Riddle in only his shirtsleeves, heads together in conversation. Minerva's hair blew out behind here. The winter wind had made short work of unraveling her bun, and Riddle had helped it along by stealthily pulling out hairpins. By the time Minerva finally noticed, it was too late, and the rippling black expanse streamed out behind her. (A/N: Dear lord that was a prosy paragraph.)

"Aren't you cold?" Minerva asked curiously, her gloved hand through Riddle's arm.

"Not in the slightest," Riddle said. "I've developed quite an admirable cold tolerance from the days in the orphanage."

"Ah." Minerva blew a piece of hair from her eyes. "What was it like?"

"Developing cold tolerance? It sort of just happens, it isn't very noticeable-"

"No, what was it like, in the orphanage?" She realized the moment the words left her mouth how insensitive she might appear, and backtracked. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Riddle shrugged, indifferent. "No, it's all right. It was rather dull... it was fairly crowded as well. Not my choice of home, at any rate." He looked at her. "What about you?" He imitated a Scottish accent.

"Not bad at all," Minerva laughed. "Quite good, for a Londoner. Well, let me see. We're from Caithness -the outskirts of Caithness, anyway. Father was a minister, and Mother was the witch." She smiled fondly. "Apparently I would make the cat do things when I was a baby."

"Did you? I had a reputation for making animals do what I wanted without training them as well."

"Really?" She leaned against him. "Which animals, snakes?"

_How did she know?_ Riddle wondered. "Yes, actually. Was that more stereotyping against Slytherin?"

"So what if it is?" Minerva said playfully. Her tone became serious. "I'm going to miss this."

"Miss what?" Riddle inquired. The wind blew again, and the air around him was infused with her scent. He found himself thinking citrus in summer to be an extremely pleasant fragrance.

"All the free time. Though why I enjoy spending it on an emotionally unstable, violently angry wizard I'll never know."

Again, Riddle wondered how she knew. "Kidding, Tom," Minerva said laughing. "Stop taking everything so seriously."

"I wouldn't call myself emotionally unstable," Riddle said quite seriously. "Just.. prone to violent outbursts."

"Don't worry, darling," Minerva said, running a hand through his tousled hair. "I find it intriguing... provided they aren't directed towards me." She gave him a pointed look. "Like this morning."

"Minerva, let me be honest with you." _Selectively honest with you. _"Lowther is not to be trifled with. I have reason to believe he's quite the dangerous toucan."

"You honestly expect me to believe that?"

Riddle feigned a hurt expression. "Why else would I get violently angry at you?"

"All right." She kissed his cheek, balancing on her tiptoes. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for, ma minette. Suspicion is only natural." He paused, pensive. "I wouldn't respect you if you were naively trusting."

"Tom," Minerva said, concern creeping into her voice, "I don't mean to be... overbearing, but you didn't have breakfast, and you missed lunch. Not to mention you hardly ate yesterday. Why don't we go to Hogsmeade and get something?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Minerva."

"You're getting dark circles."

"That's from being a terrible insomniac. My thoughts keep me up." He sighed. "I sometimes feel there isn't enough time to do everything I have planned out."

"That's why you prioritize, and spend time on what's most important to you." Minerva leaned her head against his shoulder. "That's what I do."

"Oh god."

"What?" Minerva asked, offended. "This is where you pour your heart out and share in the cutesy intimacy of the moment, Tom."

"No, not that. Slughorn just took a picture from the window."

"Oh..isn't that stalking?"

Riddle frowned darkly. "He's setting himself up for a horrible New Year's party."

"Let's give him something to photograph," she said mischeviously, and before Riddle could protest, she had thrown her arms around his neck, raised herself to her toes, and kissed him, feeling his hands instantly find her waist and lift her up just a bit.

"You're really not helping keep things private, you know," Riddle whispered against her lips without breaking the kiss.

"I know." She pulled away. "I can't help it, your indifference to gossip is rubbing off on me."

"Well, let's do that again, because I certainly wasn't complaining." Riddle lifted her up again, kissing her breathlessly even as Slughorn continued to watch. He hadn't anticipated this degree of...directness with Minerva. He'd rather expected her to have a more timid approach, but as she reciprocated his attentions, he lost himself a little. Minerva pulled away again.

"You're not _really_ going to ruin the party, aren't you?"

Riddle smiled deviously. "It's a definite possibility."

**A/N: Heeeey guys. This was written for y'all today, so thank for that. Just a couple of things. The italicized dialogue in quotation marks was supposed to Parseltongue, hope y'all caught that. Also, the book "Miss Jean Brody" was written in the '60s, but this is fanfiction so I can do what I want! Just putting this in there in case anyone knows and wants to call me out for that.**

**Now. I'm continuing with the romance because it was well received, but I hope you appreciate it, because it's so damn hard to write! So Sachita, that was for you. **

**I won't update til New Years, so we'll have cute timing for the next chapter. And happy holidays everyone!**


	15. Happy New Year's!

A/N: Okay, so thanks to me doing this...

Voldy: Didn't you say you were going to update on New Years for "cute timing?"

A/N: Well yes, but..

Voldy: Careful now, or we might start to disregard everything you say.

A/N: Sorry, but the inspiration for two chapters came too soon and hit me over the head, so...

Voldy: Readers, she's not trustworthy. Therefore, everything she's ever written, especially the parts with me and the cat lady, are completely false.

A/N: STOP IT. Anyway, Sherbet, Sachita, Eva, and Aquitane, these are for you guys. Merry Christmas and happy holidays. :)

Dumbledore's back was to Minerva when she entered the office. "You sent for me, sir?"

"Yes." He turned to face her. "It will be brief, I promise. How are things with Tom?"

"Same as ever," Minerva replied carefully. "Any reason in particular for asking?"

"Not at all," Dumbledore said. "I actually want a favor from you."

"Of course," Minerva said. "What can I do?"

"Well, you're having your dueling club preliminary meeting after New Years, correct?" She nodded. "I want you to let him teach most of it, and report to me how he does. And intervene if you feel you must, because remember, you have authority."

"I'll be happy to, sir," Minerva said, pleased he trusted her with the responsibility.

"And don't feel obligated to do it if you don't want to, Minerva," Dumbledore said kindly. "If you think it will interfere-"

"Albus," Minerva said smiling, "it's no trouble, really. Tom and I aren't terribly serious, you know." Secretly, she found herself questioning the truth of the statement.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I wonder how far things will progress before you two reach an impasse. Do you know, he actually told me 'good morning' today at breakfast, without a trace of cynicism?"

"Did he now?" Minerva exclaimed. "I've made progress with him, then. I'll be sure to report to you after the lesson."

"Marvelous. Minerva, before you go, come look at this," and he led her to Fawkes' perch, where the regal phoenix and demonic toucan cuddled, the picture of innocent adorableness.

"Thank goodness Tom didn't kill him," Minerva found herself saying.

"Kill him?"

Minerva rolled her eyes. "Tom has a vendetta against Lowther."

Dumbledore stroked his beard, pensive. "Does he, now."

_Minerva's Chambers_

"I'm not particularly fond of the green, personally," Minerva said frowning at the dress Pomona was holding.

"It suits your eyes, though," the short witch replied. "Try it on?"

"I'd rather not."

Pomona rolled her eyes. "If you hate it so much, why did you buy it in the first place?"

"I didn't! It was a gift from my brother. It's a wonder he got the size right." Minerva joined Pomona in the closet, yanking out dresses that caught her eye and laying them on the bed. "Maybe I'll wear black?"

"If you wear black you have to accessorize or you'll just look boring," Pomona returned. "Why not this one?" She held up a tartan dress.

"Well, I would, but I'm weighing how much I'd enjoy wearing it against Tom having a conniption when he sees me in it," Minerva said, shrugging.

"Isn't that an added bonus, though?" Pomona asked with a giggle.

Minerva laughed. "You're awful."

"Yes. And you love me for it." Pomona put the tartan away. "Okay, question. How comfortable are you in something fitted, black, and strapless?"

Minerva frowned. "Not very."

"Okay... and I'm guessing if it might be above knee it's a deal breaker?"

"With tights, no." Minerva tilted her head. "I don't have any dresses like that, Pomona. What are you getting at?"

Pomona pulled out the dress she had described. "It's mine though, so it's bound to be a bit short on you. But we're roughly the same measurements, so..."

Minerva eyed the dress skeptically. "I don't want to wear that." She tried to find words to describe it that weren't offensive. "It's too...fitted. I won't be able to walk, let alone dance."

Pomona sighed. "But you have to, Minerva. How else can I justify wearing this?" She pulled out one of Minerva's lesser-worn cocktail dresses, a Elizabeth Taylor style frock in eggplant purple, tight at the bodice with a full taffeta skirt.

"You don't need to justify borrowing my clothes, dear," Minerva laughed. "It's all yours."

"Wonderful. Then you wear mine. It'll look better on you anyway!" Pomona shoved the dress at her. "You have little more than an hour to get ready. Now take it."

Minerva accepted the dress with distaste. "Why don't you go ahead and get ready, and I'll look for some tights."

Pomona shrugged. "You don't know how short it'll be on you until you try it on. I'll go in the bathroom, you try it on and see." Without another word, she slipped into the bathroom, leaving Minerva alone in a tornado-stuck chamber. Minerva left the dress she had formerly been wearing draped over the back of her desk chair, and had just picked up Pomona's when there was a knock at the door.

"Who the bloody hell wants to bother me _now_?" Minerva seethed, seizing a flannel dressing gown and tying the belt securely before calling "wait a moment!" as the knocks became still more insistent. With no small amount of annoyance, she answered the door, feeling she already knew who it was. "Oh, it's you," she said, opening the door a crack to behold Riddle, already dressed and very excited.

"Charming as always. Can I come in? It's too late, I'm already in, so say 'yes,'" he said, pushing past her and stepping into the room. "I need an accomplice."

"Tom! I'm not even dressed!"

Riddle gave her a once-over. "You look perfectly presentable. Odd choice of evening wear, though."

"It's a housecoat, moron."

"I don't care. Hurry up and wear _some_thing, because I want an accomplice and I'll be damned if you refuse me."

"Be damned then, because I have an hour and I can't _get_ dressed, because a certain someone is in my room!" Minerva cried, whirling around and jabbing him in the chest with a pointed finger. "Ouch. What do you do in your spare time, lift?"

Riddle shrugged. "Irrelevant. But yes. Fine, I'll turn around, get dressed."

"Wha- _what_? God, no!"

"Is everything okay out there?" Pomona's voice called from the bathroom.

"Perfectly fine," the two called back in unison.

"Is _Tom_ in here again?" Pomona asked. "Dear lord, Minerva, you need to draw a line somewhere."

"I always do!" Minerva said with frustration. "I can't help it if he always _ignores_ them."

"You're being ridiculous," Riddle scoffed. "I'll turn around, just hurry up and get dressed." He sat on the bed with his back to her.

"I'M being ridiculous?" Minerva's eye twitched. "NO! Get out of my _room!_" She shoved him to the door with little difficulty, but once he stood in the open doorway, Riddle braced his arms against it and refused to budge. "Please move."

"I don't think so. You weren't very nice just then."

"Tom, I need to get ready. Move your lazy ass out of my doorway."

"Make me."

Minerva groaned in frustration, locked her self-respect in a corner of her mind for what she was about to do, and kissed him, taking him completely by surprise as she went at it with a disturbing lack of demureness and decency. The moment she felt his arms around her, she shoved him out of the room and slammed the door shut, locking it. "Thank you for leaving," she said in a mocking tone. "Most appreciated."

"What the hell is going _on _in there?" Pomona called.

"I can always unlock your door with magic, you know," Riddle shouted through the door, tremendously annoyed and a tiny bit impressed.

"If you do, I'll hex you into next year." Minerva hastily pulled on Pomona's dress, seized a pair of alarmingly high slingback peeptoe heels, a pearl necklace, earrings, and a chiffon wrap. "Pomona, I'll be back in a bit, I have to take care of something," she called, and hurried from the room, colliding with Riddle who was amusing himself by engraving a cat onto her door. Minerva stared. "Really, Tom?" she sighed. "Right then, why do you need an accomplice?" She untangled herself from him and started to step away.

"Hold on, let me look at you." He held her by her upper arms, taking in her appearance. An odd look came over his face. "God, you look beautiful." He eyed the length of her dress. "And just a tiny bit slutty."

"Oh shit," Minerva exclaimed, the moment lost. "I forgot stockings! Just a minute-"

"No! No, you don't need them. There's no time. Put on your shoes." As she did, Riddle began to explain his plan.

"I have the perfect revenge for Slughorn for the creeper-pictures. My office. Now." And without another word, they set off, Minerva trying to keep up in heels she was sincerely regretting putting on. By the time they reached his office, her hair had completely fallen out of its ponytail, her face was pink, and she was completely out of breath.

"What is so urgent that it couldn't wait for me to put on stockings?" Minerva snapped. "I don't want to look 'slutty.'"

"Wrong word choice, minette, do forgive me. I mean ravishing," Riddle said, seizing her elbow and leading her to a large cage. "I need you to help me attach this to the ceiling of Slughorn's office, and help me open it at precisely midnight." They stood together in silence for several minutes, necks craned back, as they gazed at the seven by ten foot cage. "What do you think?"

"How long will they stay...drugged like that?" Minerva asked, breathing finally back to normal.

"Until eleven-thirty, of course. They have to be wide awake for the... fireworks display."

"Won't they trash the place?"

"No, they're under the Imperious curse not to."

"Tom!" She stared at him. "That's illegal!"

Riddle shrugged. "So? It's for a good cause."

She scoffed. "Your amusement? And twisted desire for revenge?"

"Precisely."

She stared at the cage again. "And it'll be completely concealed?"

"Mmmm-hmmm."

"Suspended from the ceiling?"

"That is correct."

"We'll turn invisible, soundproof ourselves, and suspend the cage while the house elves and Slughorn are in the room, setting up?" She stared at the cage. "Bit risky."

"That is the plan, yes." He smirked. "A little excitement and risk of getting caught never hurt anyone."

"You're...brilliant. Completely evil and insensitive, but brilliant."

"Thanks, minette. That's the most sweet and accurate thing anyone has ever said to me."

"You realize of course I'm still pissed off at you for barging in on me like that."

Riddle chuckled. "I like it better when you're angry at me anyway." He looked at her. "That was some kiss."

"Distraction, Tom, nothing more."

"Whatever. Shall we gatecrash a party?"

"Let's."

They turned to look at one another. "You really do look terrific, Minerva. Wear your hair down more often."

"Only if you keep your hands out of it."

"I don't bargain," Riddle said, winding a lock around his finger. "Come along, ma belle mademoiselle. We have a party to ruin."

They arrived back at Minerva's room with fifteen minutes to spare, where they encountered an extremely annoyed Pomona, looking very pretty and twice as pissed off. "I spent forty-five minutes waiting for you to finish your urgent business," she snapped, "and I had to get dressed alone. By the way, Min, you look gorgeous. Can we go now?"

"I'm so sorry, Pomona," Minerva said guiltily. "I've already promised Tom two dances, but I'll stay with you for the rest of the night."

Pomona smiled. "That's not necessary. Half the night is more than enough. I want to dance too, you know."

"If you two are finished," Riddle said, "we can go." He offered Minerva his arm.

"Pomona, take his other arm," Minerva said. "Tom, it's this or..." she trailed off. "Damn. You're much more adept at needling me than I am for you."

Riddle rolled his eyes and proffered his arm. "If I hear anything from Slughorn about me being a cassanova, or something..."

"You'll what?" Minerva said sweetly. "Dispose of me in a fit of rage?"

Riddle gave her an odd smile. "Be careful what you wish for, ma minette."

_New Year's Party_

"Tom! Wonderful of you to show," Slughorn beamed, a ridiculous fez on his head. "And aren't you the cassanova! Minerva isn't enough for you, Tom?"

Tom shot Minerva a look. Something about his expression made Minerva feel unsettled. If looks could kill, she thought, she'd be dead by now. "Evening, sir," he said to Slughorn, charming as ever. "Minerva, you promised me a dance."

"You don't want to wait? We just got here."

Riddle pulled her aside. "Do you want further details in the plan, or not?"

"Excuse me," Minerva said to Slughorn and Pomona, allowing Riddle to lead her to the dance floor. "What'll it be?"

"I don't know, something inconspicuous, something that'll let us blend in." Riddle looked her over again. "I'm not sure how we'll ever blend in though, with you in that dress." He took one of her hands in one of his own, placing the other at the small of her back. "You really do look.."

"Slutty?" Minerva supplied sweetly, holding his shoulder.

"You're never going to forgive me that, are you?" Riddle sighed. "No, no. It's hard for me to say, considering I'm not used to saying that to many women and actually meaning it."

"Say what?"

"I can't say it, for fear of sounding cheesy," Riddle replied. "And I think you gather my meaning from that, minette."

Minerva flushed pink for the third time that day, shaking off her girlish delight and turning businesslike. "Let's foxtrot. Now fill me in," she said as they began to dance, noticing that Riddle appeared almost relieved at her change of subject. She found it endearing. As they danced, Riddle explained his plan in great detail, even going into the mechanics behind the magic used to execute it. She observed how his eyes grew brighter and how his face appeared incandescent when he talked about the spells, more than half of his own modification, and how genuinely happy he appeared when she asked a question that indicated she was following his line of thought and understood it thoroughly. She suspected he was often deprived of companions on his level intellectually, and felt irrationally pleased that she was perhaps one of the few who could at least understand him, even if she couldn't equal him. As they danced, his hold on her tightened, and he drew her closer, his hold almost possessive and his reluctance to let her go when the song ended.

"I don't want to stop," Riddle confessed as the dance ended. "I haven't had such a good conversation in..."

"Months?" 

"_Years_," Riddle replied. "Ever, actually. Where were you, all through Hogwarts?"

"In the library, the Gryffindor common room, and the Quidditch field," Minerva answered. "We don't have to stop..."

"No, get back to Pomona. I can't keep you all to myself," Riddle told her, "no matter how much I'd like to right now."

"Well," she said, a bit awkwardly. She moved his hands from her waist. "The room certainly looks nice."

"Yes," he agreed, turning with her to observe the gold and silver decorations, the tiny 1952 lights, slowly illuminating as the new year drew closer, the couples dancing around them and the people milling around, and the cage, unseen by everyone. "It's almost a pity that it all must be destroyed."

"You aren't really going to destroy it," Minerva said, waiting for him to reply. "Tom. You're not, are you?"

"Of course not." He looked at her in silence for a few moments, and seemed to clear his head. "Go to Pomona, I have some things to take care of."

"All right," Minerva said, walking away feeling more than a bit confused.

Riddle found Slughorn after a brief look around the room and headed over, determined to be introduced to the head of the Department of Mysteries. "Ah, Tom!" Slughorn said. "Have I introduced you to Mr. Garrod? He's-"

"Head of the Department of Mysteries," Riddle said smiling, charming facade in place. "I've read in the papers, sir. Pleasure to meet you."

The elderly wizard shook his hand. "Is this the young man you were telling me about, Horace?"

Slughorn nodded. "Yes, this is he. He graduated top of his class, and I daresay he's still working on his own experimental magic, isn't that right, Tom?"

Riddle smiled modestly. "You could say that, Professor. I doubt I can come close to the work Mr. Garrod has done, naturally."

"Nonsense!" Slughorn boomed. "The man's a prodigy, Garrod. Why, he's clearly the best Hogwarts has ever seen! Minister of Magic, one day, you've heard it predicted here-"

Riddle smiled mechanically. "That's doubtful, sir, though flattering. I'm much to busy to be bogged down by politics."

Slughorn elbowed Garrod. "He's busy with his lady, is what he means."

Garrod gave Riddle a sympathetic pat on the arm. "Don't mind him, Mr. Riddle, he's naturally just.."

Slughorn shouted over them. Riddle wondered how many drinks he had imbibed. "Now Garrod, I'm just being honest!" He nudged Garrod and pointed at Minerva, talking with Pomona and another gentleman. "Tom, looks like you have competition."

Riddle shrugged, but was unable to look. "She's entitled to talk with whomever she wants. Now, Mr. Garrod..." Riddle was in his element, and it wasn't long before he had coaxed out what he was quite certain was confidential information after loosening up Garrod with several drinks of elf-made wine. He knew better than to overstay his welcome and amass suspicion, though, so he proceeded to work the room, effectively charming everyone he came in contact with -except Dumbledore, who he pointedly ignored- and more than once glancing around for Minerva. He checked his watch, and upon seeing it was eleven forty-five, he set off in pursuit. He found her chatting with the other professors near the punch, which he was quite convinced was spiked with champagne, and tapped her on the shoulder, setting down his scotch. "Surprise."

She turned, smiling. "Oh, hello. Is it midnight already?"

"Nearly." He found himself staring again, taking in her flushed face, tousled loose hair, and slim dress. It was surprisingly short for her, a full two inches above her knees, and the heels she wore only elongated her legs.

"Well?" she asked, placing her hand on his arm. "Are we going to do this, or not?"

"Of course," Riddle said, cursing himself for being so easily distracted. Offering her his arm, he led her to the area below the cage. "Remember, timing must be perfect."

"Of course."

"Since we have time to talk, who was the man you were talking with?" Riddle kept his voice casual.

"Oh, he's from the the Harpies quidditch team," Minerva explained. "Why?"

"A bit forward, wasn't he?" Riddle replied, examining his nails. "A bit drunk too, by his behaviour."

Minerva was stunned. "Are you.. jealous?"

"Certainly not."

"You are! You're jealous." She laughed, brushing his arm. "I knew it! Tom Riddle _is_ human after all."

"All right, you've had enough fun," Riddle said, disgusted by his pitiful display of weakness. "Let's open the cage. Are the firecrackers ready?"

"Darling, calm down." Minerva was exultant. "And yes they are. Let's wait for the countdown."

"Fine by me."

As the seconds to midnight ticked by, the room became increasingly still and quiet. Someone took up the responsibility of counting down from ten, and the room chorused "Three! Two! ONE!"

"Now," Riddle whispered, and together they cried "Diffindo!" as the room burst into raucous cheers.

The cheers were cut short as the cage opened, unleashing a shower of of Cornish pixies armed with firecrackers, unleashing general mayhem and ruining the party. The tiny winged devils zipped around the room, setting off the fireworks and terrorizing the guests, faces contorted into expressions of unadulterated glee as they wrought mayhem on the unfortunates. Riddle high-fived Minerva, whispering "Mission accomplished," in a most satisfied tone.

"We should find Pomona and get out of here," she said, spinning around amidst the chaos. Riddle found himself thinking she made a very pretty picture.

"You find her," he said. "I'm going to go offer my help to Slughorn. Can't have him suspecting me..." and with that he was off.

"Good-bye," Minerva said, even though he was too far away and the room was too chaotic for him to have heard her. She rushed off to find Pomona, who was simultaneously panicking and dying of laughter.

"Which genius is responsible for this?" she cried. "It's twisted! It's evil! It's completely fantastic! Minerva, look out, there's a pixie behind you!"

Minerva whirled around and froze the pixie where it hovered, armed with a roll and a butter knife loaded with marmalade. "Okay, let's get out of here."

"Shouldn't we stay and help?" Pomona shouted over the noise. "Let's see if they need anything-"

"No, Tom and Dumbledore are helping Slughorn now. Tom's going to leave once they've sorted things out."

With that they ran from the room, joining the panicking herd of evacuating guests, students, teachers, and adults alike, but instead of waiting for the panic to sorted out so the party could resume, the went to Pomona's room as it was closest, slammed the door, and talked to each other about what the night had offered, all while Riddle heroically helped stop the chaos, slipping away amidst the slew of congratulations, reminded why he enjoyed what he did.

"And imagine," he told himself en route to his room, "there's more to come, on a much grander scale, once the Death Eaters take off."

**A/N: DONE. Oh my god, this chapter was so DIFFICULT to write, but here it is, my present to you, hot off the presses! I was going to wait til New Year's to post, but I couldn't stop thinking about these chapters. The scene with jealous Voldy was a challenge from my good friend mewmewvern, so hope you're happy with it, dear. Anyway, be sure to leave a review as a present to me, because really, do you want me to endure a Christmas without presents? **


	16. It's dueling, not tangoing

A/N: Hey guys! Thank yous are in order to Sachita, Sherbet, Eva, and my wonderful "grandson" Aquitane. Your reviews were lovely. Anyway, here's part two of my "gift" to you! I actually wrote it before the New Year's party one, so I hope you enjoy it.

"Welcome," Riddle said, throwing his robe aside, "to the revival of the Hogwarts dueling club." He looked at the assembled students as he continued. "I'm aware that a number of you attended to skip your next class, or -and I find this truly disturbing- to stare at me, something I find exceedingly inappropriate and creepy if the rumors are to be believed." He looked pointedly at Eustacia Edgecomb, a Ravenclaw seventh year, who flushed and looked away. "Nevertheless I recognize that a sizable number of you are here for the reason you should be, namely, to learn how to duel." He turned on his heel. "Let us begin."

Riddle hadn't given much thought to how he would begin the first lesson, but decided it would be enough to provide them with a brief bit of the historical background of dueling, followed by a demonstration between him and Minerva. She had surprised him by suggesting he teach the first lesson. Perhaps Dumbledore wanted her to evaluate his behaviour with the students. It was a noble effort, but rather transparent. More than understand her motives, though, he was curious to see how much she had improved since school. He was confident that the one time she had managed to beat him it had been a fluke, but still. It would take quite the formidable wizard to beat him, even if his wand was locked away and he only had one arm. He spent a brief amount of time covering the basics, finally asking the students if they would like a demonstration. Naturally, the response was overwhelmingly affirmative, and Riddle felt the old sense of excitement well up in him as he prepared to trounce yet another opponent.

"I need a volunteer...let me see... minett- ah, Minerva," Riddle said, correcting himself hastily, "would you care to join me?"

Minerva rolled her eyes at him, but nodded. _I so saw this coming._ She encountered a spot of difficulty ascending the steep rise to the dueling strip in her skirts, hesitating before she accepted Riddle's hand and maneuvered her way up. A slight irregularity in the wood caused her to trip just as she reached the strip, resulting in her falling forward. Rather than steady her with his arm, Riddle pulled her up to him apparently by accident, causing her body to fall flush against his and filling her nostrils with the scent of his cologne. Minerva felt the beginnings of a blush as the students fell silent, and began to whisper. She cleared her throat. "Thank you, Tom," she said loudly. "Do you intend to teach dueling, or a dance lesson?" Their audience tittered, and she felt increasingly flustered.

Riddle released her hand. "Notice any weaknesses the opponent may have," he said, ignoring her comment. "Perhaps she is uncoordinated, or unsettled by... recent events." He locked his gaze with hers. "Perhaps the opponent has a weakness to be exploited."

"Next," Minerva said brusquely, "niceties must be observed. We bow to one another, Tom." She curtsied.

"I don't fancy the idea of exposing the back of my neck to you when you're armed, darl- Minerva." Despite his words, Riddle inclined his head in something that was more of a deep nod than a bow. Again, the students exchanged whispers. "Next, assume your stance." Riddle walked over to where Minerva stood, a few feet away, to further explain. "There's no set guideline for this, as it depends a great deal on personal preference. Take Minerva's, for example." Minerva preferred a versatile stance like that of a fencer. It allowed for offense and defense effectively, and was rather simple to look at. Her wand arm was held out with a grip reminiscent of one for saber, and her free arm was thrown out to the side for balance.

Riddle gestured to her grip on the wand, his fingers grazing hers. "Notice her grip. It's very relaxed and comfortable, something ideal for casting a great variety of curses and countercurses. She does well to avoid an overtly firm hold on her weapon." Standing close behind her, Riddle changed her positioning slightly with a delicate touch. "Her balance is nearly perfect, but it leaves...something to be desired," he said nonchalantly. "Her spare arm is bent at approximately a 120 degree angle-" Running his hand along her arm, he lightly repositioned it to a less pronounced angle. "Finally, she leans her weight slightly forward. Minerva, lift your skirt a bit so I -they- can see the positioning of your feet." She did so, but apparently didn't raise her skirt enough, as Riddle lifted it nearly to her knees, never once moving from his place behind her. "As you can see," Riddle said, his breath warm against her cheek, "she has her right foot a few paces in front of her left." He handed her the folds of her skirt and walked around to face the students, firmly taking her shoulders in his hands. "Bend a bit less at the waist," he said, still addressing the students, and pushed her torso back a bit, bringing his hands to her waist to further perfect it, his hands lingering for longer than strictly necessary. "There you have it," he concluded, reluctantly letting go. "This is what I expect to see from the lot of you -something resembling it, anyway. It's a fairly simple stance, and quite versatile, as I'm sure Minerva will display momentarily."

Riddle assumed his stance, a decidedly more dramatic one, his wand held nearly at eye level and his elbow bent to nearly a right angle. He held his wand more as a violinist holds his bow, in only his fingertips. "My stance, as you can see, is a bit less... standard." He looked at Minerva. "You aren't going to critique me, ma minett- Minerva?"

Minerva smiled tightly. "Not your form; I think that would be a bit too... suggestive." She paused. "Of the idea that you didn't know how to duel, of course."

"Of course." Riddle raised his eyebrows.

"But," she said addressing the students, "notice _where_ he holds his wand. Professor Riddle prefers an aggressive stance. The consequence is, of course, a delayed response for defensive manuevers."

"And now, at the count of three, we begin," Riddle said once she had finished. "One...two...three."

Minerva sent a bolt of red light towards him, aimed relatively low in relation to where his wand arm was. "Aim for areas that are more distanced from your opponent's wand," she said over the crackle of energy from the spell.

Riddle cast a shield charm quickly, returning with a quick slashing motion that sent a palpable shock wave towards Minerva. "Choose a method of attack that is more.. difficult to parry," he explained, as Minerva sidestepped the onslaught and ended the enchantment with a tight flick of her wrist and a murmured spell.

"Seek to disarm your opponent." Minerva sent a nonverbal disarming charm towards Riddle, which he easily parried. "Much more effective than expending energy trying to overpower him." The lesson continued in this manner, each casting increasingly complex spells and drawing increasingly nearer to one another with the progression of the duel. Before long, they appeared to be performing an intricate sort of dance, complete with the added entertainment of vibrant bolts of light punctuating every flourish, every turn, and every gesture. Many times, it seemed as though they would collide with one another, and yet they preserved a physical distance, even when their very faces remained mere inches apart. It ended at last though, in a rather anticlimactic fashion. Riddle, tired of the demonstration, sent two spells at Minerva in rapid succession, first a stunning spell, and second a disarming charm. She blocked the first and was too late for the second, and her wand left her hand even as she leaned after it. Riddle caught her hand in his own as he waved her wand in his left hand tauntingly, brushing her knuckles to his lips as the formerly silent room burst into applause.

"Well done," he whispered, releasing her hand. "And you were rather provocative. Was that your way of exploiting your opponent's weakness?"

Minerva brushed her unravelling hair off her face. "Not at all. But I'll keep it in mind for next time." Her breathing came in short gasps. Riddle's was unaffected. Life was so unfair.

Riddle faced the students. "Divide into pairs," he said. "I hardly expect you to reproduce what you just saw, but try nonverbal spells all the same." He hopped off the dueling strip. "Minerva and I will be walking around, critiquing as we see fit. Divide up and show us what you're capable of." As the students dispersed, Riddle offered Minerva his arm, and she accepted it as she dismounted.

"Was that necessary?" she mouthed as they circled the room, trying to force her breathing to return to normal.

"Was what necessary?" He kept his eyes trained on the room. "Bones, keep your gestures smaller and tighter, they're easier to control that way." The blonde fourth year flushed and resumed her duel, keeping his advice in mind.

"That display," she said. "The students were...transfixed." A large flurry of sparks caught her eye. "Macleod, do try and cast a shield charm. It will be more effective than parrying in these early stages."

"Transfixed? Isn't that the point? They're _supposed_ to be paying attention, ma minette." Riddle said as he pointed his wand at a burly Slytherin sixth year, correcting his form from afar.

"See, that 'ma minette' business is what had them transfixed," Minerva snapped. "And I personally have nothing against it, but the students-"

"Stop encouraging me then if you have such a problem with it," Riddle retorted. His eyes widened, and he brought his face close to Minerva's ear as he whispered. "Look at Euphemia Smythe. Rather excellent for a fifth year, don't you agree?"

"Her form is very good," Minerva agreed, not wanting to turn her head to face him. "Shall we pair her with someone who'll offer more of a challenge than Lestrange?"

"No," Riddle said, continuing to walk. "I think we'll return to the subject of us and how you find my endearments embarrassing."

"I never said that."

"Ah, but you thought it."

"Fine," she conceded.

"You're tremendously indecisive, you know - Prince, no jinxes allowed- one moment you don't want anyone to know about us, and you're giving Slughorn a photo opportunity the next. Make up your mind."

Minerva sighed in frustration. "I'm fine with people knowing, but you didn't need to act as though you were...seducing me in front of the students." She cast around for a simile to express her feelings on the matter. "It's dueling, Tom, not...tango-ing."

Riddle smiled slyly. "You found me... seductive?" He drew her closer until she was pressed against his side. "How...delightful," he murmured, his hand leaving her arm for her waist. He smirked when Minerva was unable to hide a shiver.

"We should split up, we can cover more ground that way," Minerva said hastily.

"Excellent suggestion, ma minette," he said blithely. "And I suggest you make up your mind," he added, lips to her ear. "Though invigorating, your indecision frustrates me to no end." He walked away, pointing out more mistakes than attributes, and effectively inspiring in the students a large degree of respect and fear.

"Professor?"

"What is it, Miss Bones?" Minerva asked, still rather distracted.

"Okay, first don't get mad at me.. but would you and Professor Riddle critique together? He's so much more... understanding when he's with you."

Minerva raised her eyebrows. "I'll talk to him. Is he being rather harsh with the criticism? Because that's the only way you'll learn, you know."

The girl nodded. "I know, Professor. But.. well, I don't know. Why don't you come over and judge for yourself?"

Minerva nodded, following the girl to where Riddle was overseeing a duel between two fourth years. "Again," Riddle snapped. The boy shakily cast another stunning spell, but his aim was poor and the spell lacked the intensity necessary to make it an actual threat. It continued on for several minutes, Riddle providing the child with no respite. Minerva could no longer watch in silence.

"Tom, a word with you?" Minerva called, arms tightly crossed in front of her.

Riddle's cold, disgusted expression dissipated, replaced with a winning smile. "Minerva. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Minerva walked over to him stiffly, eyes ablaze at his pretended ignorance, and pulled him aside. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe... terrorizing the students?" Her voice was soft, but the anger behind her words was unmistakeable.

"Terrorizing? Really, ma minette, you must stop exaggerating. I would prefer a more neutral term, such as 'correcting' or perhaps-"

"Darling," Minerva said, hoping a softened tone might influence rather than anger, "try being a bit less belittling. They aren't as brilliant as you were at that age."

"Flattery, sarcasm, and manipulative tendency duly noted." Riddle inclined his head. "But I'll take it into consideration-"

"Good."

"-on one condition. Give me a kiss."

"What? Here?"

"You heard me." He was smiling infuriatingly. "Do you want me to coddle them, or not?"

"It isn't coddling! And I'm your superior, so I technically don't even need to _bargain_ with you at all! You're being-"

Riddle kissed her quickly, eliciting a sputter of indignation from Minerva, and strode away, critiquing with a much less harsh approach. Minerva could feel her face heating, and carried on as though nothing more than a talk had transpired, hoping no one had noticed.

_Staff room_

Minerva was sitting with Pomona when Riddle walked in, apparently deep in conversation about shallow topics. "Mind if I interrupt?" he asked, sitting beside Minerva on the sofa and lazily draping his arm along her shoulders.

"Yes, actually," Minerva said smiling sweetly. "We're talking about you."

"Oh." Riddle was rather taken aback; he had not expected this. "A worthy topic."

"Indeed." Minerva and Pomona exchanged amused grins. "Darling, I'll be all yours in an hour...or three. Why don't you...read a magazine, or something."

"Or perhaps a catalogue," Pomona said, jokingly.

Riddle frowned. "I don't think you quite get it. I think Slughorn knows we're responsible for the...gatecrashing."

"That was _you?_" Pomona exclaimed. "Minerva, I never would have thought. Why would you do such a thing?"

Minerva frowned. "But I thought you liked the prank."

"Well yes, but I never thought _you_ would do that."

Riddle sighed, impatient. "Can this conversation wait? Slughorn is on his way over, and I want you to get our alibi straight. So stop the insipid gossip, and listen to me."

"Fine." She looked at Pomona. "I can't fathom why I'm with him."

"Minerva!" Riddle realized a second too late he had allowed his voice to grow sharp. "Minerva," he tried again, relaxing. "We're going to have to appeal to Slughorn's stupidity. Namely, we're going to take an angle he already wants to believe, because then he'll throw logic and reasoning out the window."

"And what angle will we be taking, Tom?" Minerva asked. "I have a suspicion that I already know."

"If your guess was something to the effect of us being in your room, you're on the right track."

Pomona snorted.

"Go on," Minerva said, eyes narrowing and a smile spreading over her face.

"That's it. He'll accuse us, we'll deny it, I'll say we were in your room in a most casual manner, and then you blush bright pink." He shrugged. "You don't actually have to admit to anything, and it'll set him on the completely wrong track.. and indulge his matchmaker tendencies."

Pomona raised a finger. "Can I say something?" The two looked at her. "Not to butt in or anything, but Minerva can't really blush on command."

Riddle frowned. "That may be a problem, yes. Don't worry though, I seem to have a talent for making ma mie here turn pink at the most…convenient of times." He gave her a significant look.

Minerva scoffed. "Now you're just trying too hard. That sort of thing only works when the timing is perfect."

Riddle arched a brow. "I'll just have to make the timing perfect, then," he replied, placing his arm around her again. "Go back to whatever you two were doing. I'll… act natural." With that, Riddle pulled out a small leather-bound book from his pocket, and doodled.

Minerva glanced at the pages, curious. "Is that supposed to be me?"

"God no," Riddle replied. "Just someone whose face I remember seeing under rather unusual circumstances. _Your _glasses are triangular, minette."

Time had scarcely passed when Slughorn burst into the room, out of breath and quite red from the exertion of climbing so many stairs. "Tom! Minerva! What are you two playing at?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Professor," Riddle said quietly. "Minerva?"

"Sir, what's the problem?" Minerva asked, rather taken aback. She fancied herself quite adept at identifying a liar when she saw one, but Riddle was by far the most natural liar she'd ever seen. His voice was as steady as ever, his dark eyes puzzled, and his body relaxed, completely devoid of the typical subtle signs of agitation so common when one was being dishonest.

"One of you –or both of you, for all I know- released Cornish pixies at my New Year's party! You completely ruined the evening-"

"Sir," Riddle said, snapping the book shut and standing up, "Those pixies wouldn't have waited quietly the whole day. The perpetrator must have put them there about an hour before the party."

"And where were you both, an hour before the party?" Slughorn said, still vindicated.

"In Minerva's room, and I think I'll leave it at that." Riddle sat back down, waiting for Slughorn's rage to ebb and be replaced by glee. Pure, unadulterated, matchmaker-brand glee.

"Minerva, is that true?" Slughorn turned to her. "You've kept awfully quiet."

"Professor, I-" Minerva stopped speaking abruptly, and flushed a magnificent shade of scarlet. "You see, we-" She stopped again, quite unable to continue, but not because she was consumed by embarrassment as Slughorn imagined.

"No need to elaborate further, Minerva," Riddle said smoothly. Carefully, he manipulated the signals transmitted from Minerva's nerves, giving her brain the impression that she felt his touch even when his hands rested -quite appropriately- in his pocket and on her shoulder. He was sure to make it tantalizing and constantly changing location; at one instant he targeted her scalp, then her arm, then her neck, then her back. It was amusing in concept; he could do a simplified version of the magic without a wand, but with this degree of finesse it wasn't wandless magic, so he tried to do it subtly.

She turned to him, an expression he couldn't quite read in her eyes. "How are you _doing _that?" she whispered in agitation.

"Not here, Minerva," Riddle said evenly. "Later." He looked at Slughorn who had by now completely forgiven him everything. "Sir, if there's anything I -we- can do to help repair your office-"

"No, dear boy," Slughorn said happily, "no, I think I owe you an apology. Would you mind a quick word with me though, in private?" He smiled at Minerva, sunken eyes twinkling. "I won't keep him from you long, my dear."

Minerva returned the smile, though hers was decidedly feral. "Oh no. Take all the time you need."

"Tom, is this a confession?" Slughorn said once they were out of earshot.

"I never confess to anything," Riddle returned, smily flippantly. "You know that by now."

"True, true," Slughorn chortled. "But when you set a date for the wedding-"

"It hasn't even been a month, Professor."

"Oh, that's right," Slughorn said, barrelling on. "Well, when the inevitable happens-"

"Sir, is there a reason you dragged me over here other than to make predictions about my future?"

Slughorn frowned. "Not really, though I do remember now something about quite the intriguing dueling lesson." He waggled his brows, making Riddle resist the urge to jinx them into plasticity.

"What was said?" Riddle asked slowly.

"Well," Slughorn said, apparently savoring the delicious bit of gossip he had stumbled across, "according to Mr. Flume -wonderful lad, by the way- you two were quite...ah." He looked flummoxed. "I don't want to use the word he used."

Riddle rolled his eyes. "If you have a question for me go ahead and ask it, sir."

It was the invitation Slughorn had been waiting for, and he jumped at the opportunity. "You two are a couple now, yes?"

Riddle made a show of hesitancy before replying. "...Yes."

Slughorn lost it then, and in quite an uncivilized display, followed Riddle babbling incessantly about how he had always hoped for such a relationship between the two, and how he looked forward to the day he would be wishing them joy. Riddle smiled at Minerva and Pomona, winking as he sat by Minerva again. "Good bye," Slughorn chortled as he left the room. "Try and get some _grading_ done tonight." Minerva's head snapped up and her eyes flashed as Slughorn, clearly devoid of decency, winked at Riddle and left the room.

Pomona smiled slyly. "Congratulations, you two. When's the wedding?"

Minerva smiled. "Oh, stop, you're scaring him. I don't think Tom is fond of committment."

_How does she always know?_ Riddle wondered, even as he said, "Don't jump to conclusions, ma minette," kissing her as he did so.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Minerva said with a smile. "Oh, and I get to choose where we go tomorrow."

"Fine."

"Pomona is coming with us."

"Also fine."

"Lowther is coming t-"

Riddle jerked into awareness. "What?"

Minerva laughed. "Kidding. Excitable, isn't he?" she said to Pomona as Riddle glowered.

**A/N: They are SO CUTE. So cute. And Sherbet, Shipper!Slughorn was for you. :)**

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed it, I don't really know how to do romance OR dueling so hopefully it came off all right. And I'm not sure how Slughorn decided it was Voldy, but give suggestions in the reviews. Have a lovely holiday season, guys. And leave me a present in the form of a review! **


	17. Dolohov is Comedic Fodder

A/N: The reviews were lovely, guys. Thank you to Sachita, Sherbet, Aquitane, and bexypants. Now, I feel that I need to get around to furthering that thing... you know, the central conflict to a story... what's it called again? ….hmmmm... oh yeah, the PLOT! First things first: I skimmed the dueling chapter, and I realized that I'm starting to go off on a tangent about the lovely couple's relationship and not focus on what the fic is about, which is the crackfic humor and hilarity that would almost certainly ensue were Voldy to get the job in my crackverse. So I'm going to take this chapter to further the crack plot, but for you romance lovers out there I'll slip in a little something for you to keep you happy. :) I already thanked everyone, right? Fic time!

_The Three Broomsticks_

"What do you mean, Order of Sentient Magical beings?" Malfoy was unsure if Riddle was joking or not. "What is that, some kind of code?"

"No, but it's equally stupid," Riddle said. "Apparently, a group of vaguely magical animals-" He stopped when several of his Death Eaters forgot themselves and snorted quite obviously in disbelief- "yes, I said animals- have a problem with how wizards are running things."

"Well that's perfect, then!" Dolohov straightened up suddenly, prompting the others to look at him questioningly. "We can enlist their help!"

"No, idiot," Riddle snapped. "I happen to be... acquainted with their 'supreme overlord' as he calls himself." He laughed coldly. "What a ridiculous concept, a supreme overlord. Imagine." Nott and Rosier exchanged looks, looks that clearly said _irony much_? "Anyway," he continued, "after

a little interrogation, he told me that they were displeased with Dumbledore's way of doing things. Clearly they see him as more of an affront to their goals than Bagnold*, and I must say I agree; the woman is pathetic. She sends Dumbledore countless owls a day, begging for advice." He paused for dramatic effect. "And apparently, Dumbledore isn't the only target." He closed his lips and leaned back in his chair, taking a delicate sip of absinthe and setting down the glass with a satisfied click, unaware of how much his behaviour resembled that of the man he so despised.

"...are you going to _tell_ us who the other target is, my Lord?" Rosier asked tentatively.

Riddle smiled, having just heard the question he wanted most to be asked. "He told me it was a young wizard by the name of Lord Voldemort, quickly rising to prominence." He inclined his head. "Do any of you gentlemen happen to know of such a fellow?"

Dolohov frowned, confused. "Is this a trick question?"

Riddle exhaled loudly. "Yes Dolohov, it's a trick question. Why don't you go home, have a nice nap, and come back and tell me when you've figured it out?" His tone was coated in sarcasm so thick it could be spread over an entire loaf of bread.

"All right, if that's what you want, my Lord, I'll just be-"

"Of _course_ it's not a trick question!" Riddle snapped. He flicked his wand sharply, and Dolohov wheeled around, clutching his hand, stretched towards the doorknob moments ago, as if it had been burned. "Really, I don't know why I keep you around. He has no idea what social cues mean," he said, addressing the room at large. Dolohov crept back to his seat, ashamed and in severe pain, but too afraid to ask Riddle to lift the jinx. "Now," Riddle said, frowning. "Where was I before this blithering idiot caused me to lose my train of thought?"

"My Lord, perhaps we should lower our voices?" Rosier said tentatively. "We're starting to attract some attention."

"No, no, no, that's not what I was talking about," Riddle said, dismissing Rosier's advice with a deprecating gesture of his hand. "Ah yes. That ridiculous Order." He looked at the assembled Death Eaters. "They're trying to enlist the help of the dementors and goblins. Now this is something we need to look into. We can promise the dementors more sustenance than the Ministry could ever hope to, and the idea of an alliance with the goblins lead me to my next idea: an alliance with the giants." He looked around. "Nott, you and Mulciber need to pay our overgrown friends... a little visit."

Nott blanched. "As...as you wish, my Lord. When are we.." He paused, swallowing audibly, "...to do this?"

"Whenever convenient," Riddle said. Nott began to relax. "For me, of course. And fortunately for you, that's not right now." Frowning, he added, "They intend to launch an attack at some point and overthrow wizard rule, but as of now they see us as the lesser threat. You know, this is quite a bit like the war between the Muggle governments of Britain and France, in the war of 1812, only here we're Britain, Dumbledore and the ministry is France, and..." He stopped, realizing what he was saying. There was confused silence at their table as the busy, warm atmosphere of The Three Broomsticks bustled around them.

"How do you know about-" Mulciber began, when suddenly, Riddle stiffened, and with a curt "I have to go" stood up and swept from the room.

"What's going on?" Malfoy said slowly. As anyone proficient in the art of nosiness knows to do, he followed Riddle's line of sight, and observed Minerva McGonagall and Pomona Sprout walk in, engaged in lively conversation.

Dolohov, his pain finally diminished, began to grin. "I _told_ you she was the pressing matter."

"She doesn't know about... the thing, does she?" Rosier said. "She _can't_ know."

"Well, it's only a matter of time before she does," Dolohov said pointedly. "How easy is it to hide a Dark Mark after all?"

"Fairly easy when clothed," Nott said. "Obviously."

"My point exactly," Dolohov said, grin widening. The others rolled their eyes at his immaturity.

"No, his is different, it only shows if we summon him," Malfoy said thoughtfully. "Should we leave too?"

"No, that's conspicuous, just... act natural," Mulciber suggested. It was a comical sight to behold; the men were fretting over whether or not they had been overheard and what to do about it in a manner much like a flock of sheep without their master. Compound this hilarity with the mental image of said men in matching long black robes, and it was nearly a textbook example of how _not_ to behave when trying to avoid suspicion.

"Well _hello_, there," Minerva said, standing at their table with her arms folded. "What are my old classmates doing in Hogsmeade? Rather odd timing for you to be on holiday."

"McGonagall," Rosier said, rising. "Teaching now, are you?"

"As if you didn't know that," Minerva scoffed. "If you intend to play dumb you'll have to do a much better job of it." Looking around at them, she asked, "Are you all here to visit Tom?"

Rosier was surprised. "Why do you say that?"

She exchanged looks with Pomona. "Isn't it obvious? You all were his friends from school and you're in Hogsmeade of all places. You're either waiting on him to get here, or you just met with him and aren't ready to return home." She arched a brow. "Which is it?"

"What does he see in her?" Cygnus Black muttered under his breath. Aloud he said snidely, "You really haven't changed a bit since school, Minerva," ignoring the question entirely.

"Thank you. Unfortunately I can't say the same for you," she said dryly, looking down her nose. "Come on, Pomona. Lovely seeing you again, gentlemen," she added sarcastically as she and Pomona found their own table a ways away, and resumed chatting. Dolohov started to wave, ceasing immediately when Malfoy cast him a filthy look. He lowered his hand slowly, abashed.

A voice seemed to whisper directly inside Cygnus' head. "I'm going to leave now, and I advise you to do the same."

Cygnus flinched and turned, finding no one there, though he recognized the voice. "Yes, my Lord. Oh, and how much is McGonagall aware of?" He tried to speak casually, as if he were addressing the group.

"That's my concern, not yours. I'll be in touch with you shortly with more details about that pesky Order."

"Yes, my Lord." Cygnus spoke to the Death Eaters around the table who were looking at him curiously. "He says to leave," he said, voice hushed. "I think he already has."

"How did he just-"

"I don't know," Cygnus said, raising his hands. With no small bit of commotion, chair legs were scraped against the wooden floor, drinks were drained, and with much swirling of cloaks the Death Eaters exited the pub. Over at her table, Minerva watched over her gillywater, eyes narrowed and thoughtful. _What an interesting report this will make,_ she mused.

_Headmaster's Office_

"And Mulciber was there too, and..." Minerva frowned, trying to think, "and Dolohov, of course. How could I forget Dolohov?" She stopped pacing before Dumbledore, her narrative complete. "And that's about it, Albus."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and looked at her seriously. "And you say Tom was never there?"

"No, never," Minerva said, wondering why he was looking at her like that. There was curiosity and some disappointment in his eyes as well.

"Minerva," Dumbledore began, not unkindly, "if you are uncomfortable relating all of Tom's doings to me, you don't have to feel obligated to continue."

Understanding, Minerva explained. "No, I'm perfectly fine with all that. He hasn't exactly proven trustworthy just yet, I'm honestly not entirely sure what we expect of one another. But I haven't... censored what I saw in any way to shield him, Albus. He really wasn't there."

Dumbledore nodded. "I appreciate the honesty, Minerva, thank you. I don't want to trouble you with unnecessary information, but I think it will interest you to know that Aberforth told me a group of the same young men came with him in early August, when he applied to Armando for the job of DADA teacher."

Minerva frowned, intrigued. "Really? You know, I noticed him talking with Abraxas Malfoy when I went to see him after his last class... do you suppose..."

"I'm afraid I avoid jumping to conclusions with extraneous pieces of information," Dumbledore said carefully, "even when they may support the hypothesis I have. As Britain's most famous detective once said, too often people twist facts to fit theories, rather than twist theories to fit facts." He smiled at her. "I do so love a good mystery story."

Minerva's lips twitched as she allowed herself a small smile. "Elementary," she quipped.

"That, I regret to inform you, it is not," Dumbledore corrected. "Tom is capable of a great many things, Minerva. I don't mean to boast, of course, but I am a very powerful wizard-"

"That's not bragging, that's honesty," Minerva interrupted.

Dumbledore, eyes twinkling, continued. "-and it isn't false humility that prompts me to say that I should find Tom a most formidable opponent, thus making him an _extremely _formidable opponent to everyone else." His head snapped up. "Ah, that reminds me. How was the dueling lesson? You have another one scheduled sometime this week, correct?"

Minerva felt her cheeks flush as she recalled what had transpired during their little display. "It...went well," she managed, mastering her embarrassment. "But I found him to be a bit short with the students."

"How did he go about teaching the lesson?" Dumbledore asked. "Horace told me about a little...demonstration that was a bit...questionable." He smiled, pulling out a licorice snap from a scalloped candy dish in lieu of his customary lemon drops, eyes twinkling still more merrily.

Minerva's face heated again at the implication. "Well...he lectured a bit on theory and history, and it was fairly standard stuff, I found nothing questionable about it at all. And then he asked me to duel with him for a demonstration."

"As planned," Dumbledore interjected, nodding for her to continue.

"As planned," she agreed. "And he...corrected my stance," she went on, cheeks flushing again as she recalled how he had, even in such a detached, business-like manner, turned something as unromantic as _dueling_ into such an intimate thing. "It was a bit...unsettling." She tried to laugh. "Perhaps it was deliberate; he certainly got the students' attention." She tried to fill the awkward silence after her explanation. "I was a bit peeved of course, because I lost. He's quite a terrific dueler, I must say. Excellent reflexes as well..." She trailed off. "But the students were quite transfixed, so I would say it was effective."

"So I've heard," Dumbledore said at last, face unfathomable. "Mr. Flume mentioned-"

"Oh, I know what Flume mentioned!" Minerva exclaimed, hating herself for blushing furiously yet again. "I don't need to hear it again!" She was fully aware of how childish she seemed.

Dumbledore looked mischievous. "Oh, so you heard that he said that it appeared as though you two-"

"Yes, I heard!" She whirled around in agitation, watching him carefully.

"...as though you two-"

"Albus!"

The two stared at one another and laughed for a good while. "All right, Minerva. One last thing for you, if it isn't too much," he said, turning business-like. "Find out why Tom hates Lowther so much, will you?"

"Of course." She paused at the door. "I really feel as though I never left home during these chats, Albus. I used to speak to my father like this, you know."

Dumbledore's eyes grew a bit misty as he regarded the witch he had seen grow from an uncertain eleven year old to an independent woman of twenty-six. "I am...very touched, Minerva."

_Order of Sentient Magical Beings, undisclosed location, somewhere in Scotland_

"How have the goblins responded to our request for partnership?" Lowther demanded, his feet gripping the podium.

"Not well, sir," a large thestral replied. "They sympathize with our aims, but they refuse to get involved, preferring instead to work alone as a race."

Lowther's scowl darkened. "It will be their loss. You there!" The frightened owl looked up. "How are things in Hogsmeade?"

The owl ruffled its feathers nervously, resolved to not slip up and be tortured again. "Things seem pretty good right now, sir. Very good, in fact. We have a bit of a lead on the elusive Lord Voldemort. Apparently he was in that local pub, The Three Broomsticks for a short while."

"Did you manage to glimpse his face?" Lowther asked, excited.

"...No," the owl said, worried what would happen to him now that this news was out. "I'm sorry, I only heard his followers mention him. They were talking as they left the pub. I never got any indication if the man we want was with them or not, but by the sound of their conversation it was as though he wasn't there...I'm sorry, that's all I know." The owl shuffled backward in an odd sort of bow, fearful. Gordon Lowther's eyes were glowing again, and that was never a good sign...

"Very well," Lowther said softly. "Good work. We'll make a competent member of you yet." He turned his attention to a niffler. "How are things in Ireland? Has our contact responded yet...?" The meeting continued in this manner, and updates from the various animal representatives from different areas of Britain informed Lowther of the doings of the prominent wizard leaders there. Lowther wasn't comfortable though, even when he heard that negotiations with the dementors were at last underway. Something troubled him. He had woken up in a bathroom in disrepair, with his memory distinctly fuzzy and his body aching from some torturous ordeal. He suspected the teacher Riddle was to blame for it, but was reluctant to do anything about it, should it prove wrong or, as was the worst case scenario, should Professor Riddle prove to be a greater threat than he had previously believed. But he wasn't ready to jump to such conclusions just yet. No, he had a ways to go before he believed that lovestruck fool capable of something so devilishly clever- something after his own heart. He had bigger fish to fry. The rebellion and siege on Hogwarts were in the planning stages and it wouldn't be very long before the forces could be mobilized, but once Dumbledore was disposed of there was the issue of that damnably evasive Voldemort. He had a vague feeling that he knew the man, that he had even seen his face once, but it passed. It was ridiculous, of course. He returned to Dumbledore's office, where he waited for the man to return and amused himself with Fawkes' food and Dumbledore's trinkets, ready to spill what little tidbits he had collected on Riddle and Miss Jean Brodie -as he called Minerva- in his mind. By relating to Dumbledore these juicy bits of gossip, he stayed in his good graces and was shielded from Riddle in the process. He was certain of it. Surely that young professor couldn't hope to compete with the man that his entire Order viewed as a threat!

Some say ignorance is bliss. Lowther didn't know how accurate that statement was, but it can be assumed that were he to know that the man he knew as Riddle was actually the Lord Voldemort he was preparing to wage war against, he would have ceased his operations at once, realizing from the angle he was taking, he was way in over his head.

_Riddle's Chambers_

"So what should I call you?" Riddle asked Minerva, voice muffled by her hair. She made an unintelligible noise. "If you insist, ma minette, but I don't think 'mmnfrvfff' is very easy to remember."

"I said, 'Minerva' would be fine," Minerva said, pushing herself up. "But you may call me whatever you like, since clearly my preferences have little bearing on your nicknames for me anyway." She curled up next to him again, face in the hollow of his neck.

"But you had a problem with me calling you 'minette' in front of the students."

"Tom, I've gotten over that."

"Have you seen yourself when you're annoyed though? I've never seen anyone with such a perfect example of Avada Kedavra eyes in my life." He smiled as he said it; it was so easy to enrage her and when she was livid, her eyes snapped in a manner that was most deadly that he quite enjoyed to see.

"Are you hinting at something?"

"No." He was about to ask her in a roundabout way what she had done in Hogsmeade. He couldn't let her know exactly how much he was aware of just yet, though things were proceeding at an admirable rate.

"Yes, something's bothering you." She let go of him, turning his face towards her and tilting her head. "What's the matter?" she prodded gently.

"Nothing," he replied. "I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment is all."

"Do you want to talk to me about it?" she asked. "You don't need to internalize everything, you know."

"You and I aren't quite at the stage that we can divulge everything we think of to the other, though right now I'd like nothing more, minette." The thought suddenly occurred to Riddle that perhaps he could prompt her to spill a bit of what Dumbledore was having her do, since she was in such a... sharing mood. He sincerely doubted that the old man wouldn't be keeping his nose and sherbet lemons out of any situation involving himself.

"Really?" Minerva asked, looking a bit upset at his words. "And why might that be?"

"I'm not sure." He reached for her hair. "Perhaps because I'm so used to working alone. We can engage in some amateur psychoanalysis and figure out which of my mental issues that stems from." He smiled at her, the expression fading as hers remained unchanged. "You aren't smiling. Why aren't you smiling?"

"You are so guarded," she murmured, eyes falling half shut as he eased out the soreness in her scalp from wearing a bun all day. "But there's a difference in working alone and being completely solitary, darling."

"I'm aware."

"But, since you're pointedly ignoring all my hints for you to open up to me, I'll open up to you." She suddenly stiffened, and her eyes snapped open as she tilted her face up to lock her gaze on his. "Don't you dare make a dirty comment." Her nose brushed his.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

She lay her head against his chest again, fingers idly playing with her abandoned hair clip as she continued. "Anyway, back to my little confession. I'm afraid I'm getting to be dangerously fond of you." She looked at him over her shoulder. "Don't be weirded out or anything."

Riddle controlled himself, though it was more of an irrepressible smugness rather than hurt indignation, a look he decided to try for, as Minerva might not take kindly to too much arrogance on his part. "Are you really? How long has this been…"

"Probably since the Yule Ball." Minerva felt a bit awkward admitting it, especially when she considered the fact that at the end of the day, she was still reporting to Dumbledore on his doings. Tom's silence wasn't helping either. "I don't exactly know when it began… I guess you could say I was halfway there before realizing I ever started." She wished he would say something, and began to wonder whether she may have admitted too much too soon. After all, he couldn't possibly have been in many relationships –he wasn't that type, after all- and so this sort of confession was probably one he wasn't used to hearing this soon.

"Are you going to continue?" Riddle asked at last. His hand resumed its attentions to her hair, and Minerva relaxed.

"That's all."

Riddle frowned. He had rather hoped she would say something along the lines of "Dumbledore is having me spy on you and I'm going to quit now" or something to that effect. Clearly, she had no intentions of doing so. Still, it was progress, and he could honestly say that he was growing fond of her company, so… "No, I meant are you going to continue to grow 'dangerously fond of me'? Because I would enjoy that very much."

Minerva smiled, content. "I don't think I can very well stop at this point." She chuckled, more to herself than to him. "Oh, I wonder what Albus would say if he knew."

"Ease him into it," he suggested. "I don't see why you care so much about his opinion of us minette, but you can always gradually acclimate him to it." His hand moved to her cheek. "Would that be so hard?"

Minerva leaned against him again, feeling relieved when she felt his arms encircling her. "All right. And your sentiments are the same?" she whispered, feeling nauseatingly cliche and child-like. It was something that she had been wondering for a while.

"Of course they are," Riddle replied semi-honestly, his overlarge ego threatening to burst. And they stayed like that for several minutes, until a chime from the clock alerted them of the late hour.

"I should go," Minerva murmured, moving from where she lay against him. "Tom?" He appeared to have dozed off. Minerva tried to slip away noiselessly, but some small disturbance must have betrayed her, as he opened his eyes.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it was rude to leave without saying goodbye?"

Minerva smiled. "I'll kiss you goodnight instead," she said, leaning over him and kissing him softly, preparing to leave the room.

"Minerva."

She turned to look at him leaning against the headboard, hair mussed and collar undone. "Yes?"

"Stay awhile longer."

"Tom, I'm tired, you're tired, and I want to go to sleep, because unlike you, I'm not okay with becoming an insomniac zombie living on air."

Riddle ran a hand through his tousled hair. "I have reading to do, and I want company. I'll take you to your room when I finish."

"And when might that be?" she asked sarcastically. "Two in the morning?"

"Probably," Riddle admitted. "But this moment bears so much resemblance to every romantic cliche I'm aware of, so it seems a pity to end it so abruptly, don't you agree?"

Sighing, Minerva rejoined him on the bed, worming her way into the blankets. "Be warned. I'm lousy conversation when exhausted." She looked at him pointedly. "Still want me here?"

"Obviously." They talked, or rather he talked and Minerva listened, of magic, of politics, and of trivial gossip related from both dubious and reliable sources, but never, Minerva noticed even in her drowsy state, of himself. More than once she found herself wondering what he was reading, as the book was angled in such a way that she couldn't see, but she was too tired to care, content with making a few sorry attempts at enlightening remarks on the subject at hand. She didn't remember when she fell asleep nor when he carried her to her room, but she found herself waking up in her familiar surroundings, and a note on her nightstand.

Her reading glasses were nowhere in sight, so she held the note at an arm's length to read it. She found herself curiously excited, and squinting, she began to read. "Minerva," she began aloud, and stopped after she took in the rest of the note in a glance. "Really, Tom?" she said with amusement and annoyance as she threw the note aside and rose to start her day.

_Minerva,_

_That's the second time you cut off circulation in my shoulder. Delightful though your company may be, you really need to stop. I suggest you either use a pillow or find a more comfortable angle if I am to be the pillow, because frankly, it's getting ridiculous.  
><em>

***Millicent Bagnold: The Minister before Fudge. Just fyi.**

**A/N: This end scene was my try at cutesy-fluffy. How'd I do? Also, Voldy isn't the best at the sentimental thing, is he?**

**Well, hope you lovely people enjoyed. Don't forget to review!**


	18. Hagrid's Here!

A/N: Hey all! Sorry for the delay but there's this thing called school and it keeps getting in the way. Here's my latest and I apologize in advance for its shortness. :P Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Hope you enjoy the endscene. I honored the wishes of all you romance aficionados, no matter how much I shy away from writing it. Yeah... well. Happy reading!

* * *

><p>Rubeus Hagrid was a man of simple tastes and simple desires. It didn't take much to make him happy, and, emotional man that he was, it didn't take much to make him upset either. But he was a gentle giant in even the most literal sense of the phrase. He was fond of animals from a young age, and always seemed to find himself drawn to magical creatures, usually of the most dangerous sort. The dangerous creatures he held so dear often were lacking in the cuteness department, so a reasonable question would be a musing on the outcome should Hagrid chance upon an exotic magical creature that was both dangerous and cute. Perhaps fate had dealt Hogwarts a cruel blow, for that was precisely what happened.<p>

"Hello little fellow!" The bunny, representative for the Scottish branch of the order twitched its nose innocently and looked up at Hagrid. Lowther had informed it about Hagrid's penchant for magical, often dangerous exotic creatures. The rabbit felt that the fact that it was an arctic hare, it fit the exotic bill to a tee, and as for dangerous… well, the giant would see soon enough. But for now, cuteness was the main concern, and the bunny set about twitching its nose and nibbling on grass in the most adorable way it could imagine.

"Why don't I take you inside, and-" Hagrid scarcely got more words out for the simple reason that the bunny did not WANT to go inside, and needed an excuse to reveal its abilities. So it did the only thing a magical can do. It pulled back its lips from its creepily fanged bunny teeth, and narrowed its red eyes, rearing up onto its hind legs. Overlord Lowther had informed him of the Giant One's habits. If he behaved in a scary, threatening manner, the giant would take it as endearing behaviour, and accept him into his house. Slowly, they could accumulate forces right on the grounds of Hogwarts, and when they were ready for the invasion, no one would stop them. And thanks to Lowther's reconaissance, Dumbledore would never believe the giant capable of anything as terrible as hosting an army of rebellious magical animals! It was more likely the new professor would be blamed.

"Oh, it's a vampire little critter!" Hagrid positively beamed, and carefully scooped up the snapping rabbit. "Oops! Doesn' know what he's doin', jus' a baby, after all." And so the first of Lowther's troops infiltrated Hogwarts, with nothing more than a cute face and vampire teeth.

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><p><em>Headmaster's Office<em>

Albus Dumbledore paced behind his desk, arms folded behind him. Lowther had grown distant with Fawkes. It seemed that the two had gotten into some sort of avian argument, and this didn't bode well for Dumbledore since Fawkes was the primary bridge between the toucan and himself. The bird didn't seem to trust him fully. His reports on Tom and Minerva had become increasingly vague. Dumbledore didn't like the idea of spying on Minerva's relationship with Tom, and he knew fully well he couldn't expect her to tell him the details of at what stage they were at, but even so he felt a sort of obligation to be watchful. Remarkable though Minerva may be, he wasn't comfortable with the idea that Tom was spending so much time in close proximity with his most prized lieutenant. And should the young wizard give him any suggestion to terminate the contract, well... it wouldn't be difficult. So far though, Minerva seemed to be emotionally detached from Tom. He doubted she could truly have strong feelings for him and simultaneously report to him on Tom's doings. He crunched his lemon drop in frustration. It didn't make any sense, and yet she seemed a bit too fond of Tom for him to think that she was using that as an angle to get information out of him. Rather, it seemed the reverse; Tom was much more forward than she.

"What do you think, Fawkes?" He turned and asked his phoenix quite seriously. He waited for several moments. Fawkes blinked slowly. "Ah yes. You don't talk." He resumed pacing. Perhaps if Tom would reveal a bit about the Death Eaters to Minerva, she could garner more information for him. He decided to voice the suggestion to her, although in a much more roundabout way. He wouldn't put it past Tom to try and make Minerva one of his followers. Dumbledore resolved to mention it to her at dinner. He ceased his pacing again and snapped to attention.

"Fawkes!" The phoenix snapped to attention. "Stop sulking around this instant! Go find Lowther and make up right now." Fawkes crowed reproachfully. "I don't care whose fault it was. Be the bigger person..." Dumbledore frowned. It didn't sound quite right. "Or be the bigger bird, as the case may be. Actually, you already _are _the bigger bird, so... Never mind. But go make up with your friend right now." Fawkes puffed up his feathers, huffed, and turned around. Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling. "Go, Fawkes. Be nice. He's very far from home, you know. Ask him about that Order of his. I heard him trying to tell you about it."

Fawkes ruffled his feathers, annoyed. If only there was some way to communicate to Dumbledore that the problem with Lowther was that his Order was trying to overthrow him, and that he was in general bad tempered and rude like the majority of toucans. But noooo. Dumbledore fancied himself one of those stereotypical fathers who had to protect his little girl from that nasty man. Except Dumbledore wasn't Minerva's father, and as far as Fawkes knew, Tom didn't seem too bad. How could he be, when his wand had one of his own tail feathers? The wand chooses the wizard, and how could a wand with a core of his own making choose a loser?

Fawkes, being a bird, was unfamiliar with the concept that bad people weren't exclusively "losers." Or perhaps he just wasn't concerned with it, and was thinking about his next meal or his impending rebirth. But he flew off to appease Dumbledore, who smiled contentedly at him, lightening his mood. "Marvelous birds, phoenixes," he said to himself. Sagely he ate another lemon drop, reaching for two more almost instantly, stopping his hand once he glanced down sadly at his newly acquired potbelly. "Oh dear me," he sighed. "I really must learn to stop with one candy per train of thought."

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><p><em>Minerva's Chambers<em>

He knocked on the door frame loudly as he walked into her room. "Minerva? Are you in here?" The acrid scent of nail polish seemed to hit him full in the face as he neared the center. He saw the back of her head even as the rest of her body was concealed by the bed, bent in concentration as she went about her task.

She turned, a smile quickly brightening her face when she saw him. "Hello, darling. Sit down." She bent her head back to what she was doing. Riddle went over to investigate.

"Ah." He was bent at the waist, fingers interlaced behind him as he examined her. "Painting your nails, I see. That would explain the obnoxious scent of acetone."

"You don't like them?" She held up a hand. "I went with red and green. I'm still in the holiday spirit."

"Perhaps I should have brought mistletoe, then." Minerva must have been building up a resistance to his advances, as she merely laughed and returned to her painting.

"You're a mess, Tom."

"Here, let me," he said, sitting cross-legged beside her and taking her hand.

"Um, that hand is already finished." Minerva rolled her eyes. "You're as bad as my brothers, they don't know the least bit about women things..."

Riddle drew out his wand. "You're doing it the Muggle way." Under his direction, a sprig of holly bloomed across her thumbnail. "There you go, ma minette."

Minerva gave him her other hand. "Go ahead and do this one too, then."

"No, no," Riddle said, brushing her hand away. "I don't know about these 'women things,' you said so yourself."

Minerva adjusted herself. "Alright, then what better time to learn? Here, you do the toes, I've just started. And my feet are clean, promise." She was wearing one of her house robes, a light cotton tartan garment over what appeared to be a night dress. Unabashed, she folded one knee to her chest, and rested the other foot on his lap. "Go ahead, I'm waiting."

Riddle picked up the nail polish. "Amazing how your sense of modesty has diminished in just a month." He eyed the hem of the robe, significantly higher than it was meant to be. "And to think, you were complaining about not wearing stockings at Slughorn's party."

She turned a bit pink. "Is there a problem?"

"Did you hear me complaining?" He readjusted her leg, long fingers lingering. He set about painting the nails with magic, though- he didn't like the idea of using the brushes- and changed the pink color to a deep red. Black flowers bloomed across her toes under his direction.

"Tom, that's quite the creative design you've done there," Minerva said, examining his handiwork. "I didn't know you were such an artist."

"I'm not finished yet," Riddle said, taking her ankle in his hand and stretching her leg across his lap.

"What do you mean? My nails are painted." Minerva pushed herself forward, balancing her weight on her hands.

"Yes, and I've decided I enjoyed doing it," Riddle replied, picking up his wand again.

"So you're painting them again?" she asked. "You really need to be more clear, Tom. You aren't making any sense."

"Who said anything about your nails, Minerva?" Riddle held the wand a few millimeters above her skin, winding it in lazy patterns as a snake drawing undulated along her slim ankle and calf. She shivered as the air around her skin was displaced just enough to be teasing, but not enough for her to feel anything significant.

"What else do you know?" she marveled when he finished, running a hand along her leg, amazed. It didn't feel as though anything had been done, but as her fingertips grazed the drawing it seemed to slither in place. She looked at him, a new respect in her eyes.

"What do you mean by that?" he murmured, drawing her onto his lap. "You know by now I engage in experimental magic."

Minerva looked past him. "Darling, let me shut the door."

"What's the matter, ma minette? Expecting a visitor?" Riddle tightened his hold, partially because he felt like it, partially because the acetone fumes had made him high, and partially because he enjoyed being difficult.

"No, of course not, I just don't want anyone to see..."

"You are so easily unsettled, even now," Riddle breathed, working his way down her jawline to her neck. "Relax, no one will see us."

"Tom, let me shut the door," Minerva insisted, hand scrabbling along the floor for her wand.

"I said relax," Riddle said, a hard edge creeping into his voice. "Arch your neck just a bit, you're making this difficult for me."

Minerva seized his face in her hands, pulling his head back. "Listen to me, you persistent bastard. If you want a little tryst right now, fine. If you want to behave unprofessionally, fine. If you want me to be immodest-" she smiled, tilting her head down and bringing her face close to his, their noses brushing, "that's perfectly fine." Riddle raised his eyebrows in amusement, angling his head sideways intending to close the gap between them. She stopped him with a finger on his lip. "But if you intend to do any more of the above with that door open I promise you-"

Riddle flicked her finger away impatiently, crushing his mouth to hers and effectively swallowing her words and the remainder of her air. He smiled, even as he deepened the kiss while her hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer rather than pushing him away. Her breathing was heavy and ragged, and she didn't protest when he turned his attentions to her neck and collarbone. When he slipped her housecoat off her narrow shoulders, however, she suddenly pushed him away. "No more, Tom. The door is still open."

Riddle could only stare in bewilderment as she turned, located her wand, and locked the door, a most irritating little smug smile on her newly bruised lips. He had been so certain that she was completely distracted. That was the second time he'd underestimated her. Arrogance was proving to be quite the annoyance; but wasn't it completely deserved? "It isn't any more, minette," he tried again, kissing her firmly and working his hands into her hair. "Where were we...?"

Minerva bit his lip gently, causing him to pull back in surprise. "I said no more. You had a chance and you blew it." She slid off his lap. "I wanted that door closed."

Again Riddle was dumbfounded. "It's closed now."

"Yeah, no thanks to you." She busied herself with the nail polish, collecting it and putting away in a little wicker basket.

"Touchy touchy," Riddle said snidely, pride wounded.

"No, that's you, Tom. Couldn't keep your hands out of my housecoat, I see." Minerva disappeared into the bathroom, from which the sounds of cabinet doors opening and shutting emanated.

"You're the one that all but gave me permission to 'behave unprofessionaly'! Technically, by leaving the door open, I was complying with what you said!" Riddle felt that she was being most unfair.

"Yes, on the condition that you close the goddamn door! You didn't listen!" She stepped out of the bathroom, eyes blazing. Her peeved expression rapidly dissipated. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Riddle crossed over to her, catching her waist. "How do you like my drawing?" She pivoted her leg to examine it, and he caught her knee, steadying her with his hand as he lifted it up. "Tell me."

Minerva's eyes flicked down to her leg, imprisoned by his hand, her eyes fluttering shut. "Stop that," she murmured. Riddle mentally congratulated himself. He had the upper hand again.

"You sound a bit reluctant, ma mie."

Minerva leaned into him as he pulled her closer. "Certainly no- Tom!" She hooked her knee off his hand. "What is this?" She grabbed his wrist and thrust it in front of his face.

Damn it, Riddle thought, cursing himself. "What is what? Sure you aren't imagining things?"

"This," she insisted, tracing the faint outline of his dark mark, nothing more than a raised white line much like a scar. He considered himself lucky that no one had decided to summon him at the moment; it would have burned and turned quite visible.

"Ah yes, that," he said, mind racing. "It's nothing."

"Is that carved into your skin?" She looked scandalized.

He shrugged, deciding incomplete honesty would be his best card in this case. "Branded, actually."

"God, who did this to you?"

_Not exactly what I had in mind_, Riddle thought, confused. "Er, it isn't important, Minerva. You needn't look so worried."

Minerva hooked her arms around his neck. "You are so unfair. I felt very silly and vulnerable sharing my feelings with you, and now I'm getting protectively angry because I found a hideous scar on your arm, and you still won't tell me anything."

Riddle cocked an eyebrow. "We're hardly in a romantic location."

"We're in my room! My bedroom, I should say! That in itself makes it appropriate for timid little confessions." Minerva couldn't help but feel a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth even as she tried to look upset. "You're horrible at all this… sentimental shit," she finished lamely.

"We're in the doorway to your bathroom, Minerva."

"Oh. Yes." Minerva dragged him to the bed, kicking the bathroom door shut en route. "Okay, better?"

"Nope, the moment's still ruined. Your fault, this time, I might add."

"Well then." She frowned. "Screw you."

"Is that an offer?"

Minerva rolled her eyes. "How immature."

"You didn't answer," he smirked. "So silence means consent. Yes, it was an offer, I've decided."

"I'm not a slut, even though my new year's dress may have indicated otherwise, Tom."

Riddle groaned. "Stop holding that over my head. And thank you for that, now I have that lovely image of you in that dress again." He fingered her hair. "And going back to your offer..."

"Shut up."

"What happened to you being 'perfectly fine' with being immodest?" He smirked; riling her up was too easy, and he did so love to see her eyes smolder.

Minerva sighed impatiently. "As a matter of principle, I'm going to have to draw the line again, or I'll hate myself. Why don't we go have dinner with the rest of the staff?"

Riddle let go of her at last. "Fine." He wound a loose curl that had fallen from her bun around his finger. "Only for you, ma minette."

"You're such a gentleman, darling," she said, not fully appeased. "By the way, Miss Edgecomb was rather inappropriate today. I thought I'd let you know."

"What did she say?" Riddle asked uninterestedly.

"Oh nothing," Minerva said airily. "She just happens to have quite an inappropriate infatuation with the 'gorgeous new defense professor' to quote her. Watch yourself," she said playfully. "She's underage."

Riddle frowned, genuinely disgusted. "That's repulsive, Minerva, she's a student. Besides," he added, leveling his gaze, "I'm only interested in the beautiful new transfiguration professor infatuated with me."

"So self-centered," Minerva said disparagingly. "Nothing about your feelings towards the lady?"

"Feelings? Why, she took control of those long ago," Riddle replied smoothly.

"That'll do," she said blithely, and they went to the Great Hall together, Riddle scheming how to ease her into his other doings. He'd start tomorrow after class; he had a lovely calculated move that would appear completely unintentional the way he'd carry it out. Yes, it was good to be the smartest man in the room, but it was better still to be the smartest man in the entire nation, and he was quite certain that man was him.

* * *

><p><strong>OMG I FIGURED OUT HOW TO DO PAGE BREAKS YOU GUYS<strong>

**A/N: Sorry I'm ending it here, guys. I just don't want to get long winded, so things will be better in the next chapter. Minerva's convo with Dumby will be revealed, promise! Oh, and I leave it up to you guys: yes or no to a Death Eater Meeting Date for my happy couple? You decide! And don't forget to review, darlings. :)**


	19. A Death Eater Date, Part 1

A/N: Hey all! I know I'm usually much more prompt with my updates, but alas, these past two weeks have been hellish. Anyway. I suggest that everyone read my "Interview with a Dark Lord" fic, because it gives a beautiful rationale for all you shippers out there who say "Damn it, my ship is canon. We just need historical evidence." I speculate about it extensively. Anyway, I'm sure you're more interested in what happens next in the story, so I'll shut up soon. Thank you to Sachita, Sherbet, Sarah, and Aquitane for the lovely, morale-boosting reviews. I tossed in some romance for y'all too, so.. yeah. It's pathetic that writing romance for my own ship squicks me out so much... but I hope you like it. I also lost the humor for a bit.. I promise the next one will be more funny! Now, on to the fic!

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><p><em>Dumby's Office<em>  
>"And he's just the cutest little critter," Hagrid was saying in earnest as Minerva slipped into the headmaster's office. She smiled fondly. Hagrid had been a third year during her sixth at Hogwarts, and was expelled after Tom had discovered his pet acromantula was responsible for the attacks. She had always felt the sentence had been too harsh, but Hagrid had always held a special place in his heart for dangerous animals, so the proceedings were only natural, though unfortunate.<p>

"Rubeus, with your current menagerie, do you honestly need permission to introduce a bunny into the mix?" Dumbledore asked, eyes twinkling. "By all means, keep Fluffy. But try and think of a more creative name, will you? I think Fluffy suits a more fierce animal... perhaps a three-headed dog, should you ever acquire one." Minerva knocked on the door frame. "We're all finished, Hagrid. Minerva, come in."

"Thank yeh, Perfessor Dumbledore," Hagrid said, beaming. "'Ello, Minerva."

"Morning, Rubeus," Minerva returned, smiling. As the door closed behind him she remembered her reason for being there, and her smile faded.

"Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered.

"_No_, Albus." She was starting to see the basis of Tom's annoyance with Dumbledore and his accursed sherbet lemons. "Okay, first off, I glimpsed Tom's notes for his seventh year lecture, and don't quote me on this, but it looks like he's teaching evisceration of some sort, through dark magic."

"That's very serious, Minerva," Dumbledore said gravely. "Find out for sure before you say anything further. Anything else? You were quite pink at dinner yesterday."

"Sort of," she said, calmly for once after Tom's repeated admonishing and constant advice on how to remain cool under Dumbledore's piercing gaze. "He has the most _hideous _scar on his arm and I swear I've seen that before, and..." She frowned. "He seemed most unwilling to talk about it, and was very touchy about me trying to feel it, much less investigate."

"A scar?" Dumbledore asked, excited. "Could you draw it, perhaps?" Minerva shrugged and drew the mark as best as she could in the air with her wand. Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "That mark has been connected to the Death Eaters, an organization I have ample reason to believe Tom is extensively connected. Others, I think, involved in the group would be-"

"Yaxley, Dolohov, Black, and probably anyone else in the Three Broomsticks with him that afternoon," Minerva said thoughtfully. "But..."

"Minerva, the fact that he's been so careless about you finding out worries me," Dumbledore interrupted. "Tom isn't careless to this extent. I think he wants you to join him."

Minerva laughed. "That's completely absurd. I'm quite fond of him, and I think he feels the same, but it's practically been established between us that neither will quit being stubborn long enough to let the other gain any bit of influence. You needn't be so worried," she said lightly. "I _know_he's up to something, and he'd rather have me as an ally instead of an antagonist. But more likely than not it's trivial school things he has in mind. And," she said, her face softening a bit, "I think he's very sweet to me in the most unromantic way, far more sweet than he can ever be when he's deliberately romantic, and he doesn't realize it." She shrugged again. "But hey, if you want me to get information on these 'Death Eaters' by acting like I want to join or something, I'll play the part." She didn't notice concern enter his face after her comments on Tom.

"Don't feel like you have to on my behalf," Dumbledore warned. "If it's too much of me to ask of you, let me know now."

Minerva's mouth compressed to a thin line in irritation. "Of course I feel obligated. And of course I'll do as you ask, Albus. But stop faking concern about your assignments cutting into my...relationship with Tom. You aren't too preoccupied about it and you can quite your pretending."

Dumbledore stood, unsettled by her incorrect interpretation of his admonishment. "Minerva, forgive me. I in no way meant to imply-"

"It's fine." She forced a smile. "Just trust me with this. Really," she added in earnest, "I appreciate the concern. But treat me more as a friend, rather than a daughter." She tipped her hat. "Shall I get a lemon drop, as a token of our friendship?"

Dumbledore smiled back. "Take the whole tin." He patted his stomach. "I'm afraid I need to go on a diet."

She laughed, relieved that there was no animosity between them. "Lovely. I'll go invite myself to that Death Eater meeting; Tom's class should be nearly over," she called over her shoulder, heading off to the defense classroom. "Through any means necessary," she muttered to herself, once in the hall.

In his office, Dumbledore frowned. Lowther the toucan hadn't returned from his reconnaissance in Tom's class. He hoped the foolish bird hadn't entered the class...he wouldn't stand a chance if he had.

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><p><em>Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom<em>  
>Riddle had it all planned out. Sure, it was very likely that there was a better way to let her know of his impressive Dark Lord status -and it was likely more straightforward- but this way would be so much more <em>fun<em>. She'd feel special and superior if she thought she had wormed information out of him, but if he were completely in his right mind, she wouldn't believe it. No, better to appear intoxicated, and let something slip. And of course she'd go telling Dumbledore, who would encourage her to find out more, and thus effectively send her into his conniving arms. He would be very discouraged if she hadn't already told the headmaster about the Dark Mark; he'd rather she hadn't seen it in the way she had, but since memory charms were out of the question he'd have to just go with it and play it to his advantage. These thoughts on his mind, he ceased his pacing and stood behind the desk.

And Lowther flew in through the open window.

"Hello, Mr. Riddle."

"_Professor_Riddle," he corrected, turning to dock points from the errant student for such insubordination! only to find it wasn't a student at all. "Gordon Lowther!" His wand was in his hand instantaneously, and the killing curse was forming on his lips when his students entered at a most inopportune moment, forcing him to casually run his wand hand through his hair, feigning nonchalance.

"Afternoon," he said smoothly, bolting the windows and door with a flick of his wand. "Take your seats." There was the general commotion as the seventh years settled into their desks, all except Eustacia Edgecomb, who remained standing, looking curiously at the bird. _Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask..._Riddle mentally commanded her, but of course...

"Professor, why is there a toucan in our class?"

"Why are you still standing?" he returned coldly. "Take your seat, Miss Edgecomb." The girl blushed and sat. A lovely idea dawned on him then. "How much exposure have you had with evisceration?" He jerked his head in the direction of a most unpleasant poster of a man who appeared to be turned inside out, his organs all visible and in sharp relief. The room fell completely silent. "It isn't strictly...orthodox magic, but a discipline worthy of learning. I think you will find the practice invigorating. You see," he continued, "when dealing with the Dark Arts, the best form of defense is often a powerful offense." He stopped, facing Abraxas Malfoy. "When dealing with a force as unpredictable, versatile, and malleable -the force being magic, of course- to generalize magic, or to typify it, so to speak, by relegating it to the 'good' bracket or the 'evil' bracket, is akin to stunting necessary research for progress. With magic," he said slowly, "there can never be good nor evil, only the manipulation of energy... in other words, power. Yes," he said, raising his voice, "the typifying of magic by those too weak in resolve to comprehend this is what has made my... spiel a novel concept." He walked back to his place behind the desk, every eye fixed upon him. He knew his delivery had intrigued the students, and that they were a bit hesitant yet still overwhelmingly eager to try the most seductive kind of magic -the Dark arts. "Are there any...questions?" he asked softly. Not a single hand was raised. "Excellent," he murmured. "And," he added, a malicious idea striking him, "since a human volunteer is out of the question, the toucan can be my subject for...demonstration."

"Sir!" a Ravenclaw girl exclaimed without thinking. "That's-"

"Remember to_ raise your hand_, Miss Flume," Riddle said dismissively. "Now-"

"Sir," a Slytherin interrupted, hand in the air, "she's uncomfortable with-" the girl whispered in his ear rapidly- "'animal cruelty,' sir."

Riddle's lip curled with cold amusement at the girl's softness as he walked over to her desk, leaning his weight against it. "Miss Flume," he said gently, charmingly dangerous facade in place, "you needn't worry. Lowther the toucan is just a transfigured doorknob."

Lowther gulped.

"Let's have fun with this, shall we?" he murmured, a hard edge returning to his voice. A cruel smirk twisted his handsome features, and he tightly maneuvered his wand in a spiral, the incantation leaving his lips.

A terrible keening filled the room as the bird dropped to the desk, legs unable to support it once sheets of pain enveloped its body. A long incision bloomed across the front of Lowther's torso, staining the feathers with his dark blood. The shrieking increased in intensity as the unfortunate toucan's skin and muscular tissue was peeled back, his pulsating organs slick in the eerie lighting of the classroom. Riddle spiraled the wand in the opposite direction, and with a quick murmur of "finite incantatem" the spell ended, Lowther restored to his previous condition. Riddle stared at the class intently. "Begin. As you can see, he came to no harm." Lowther trembled, clearly unconvinced. The class practiced in turns, some more proficient than others, the seventh year Flume among the most hesitant. Riddle was sure to be careful with his criticism, keeping it specifically geared to what each student would benefit most from. Abraxas' turn finally came.

"Abraxas," he muttered, "Will you be joining your father at Cygnus' tonight? Decently done," he added, raising his voice, "but there is no delicacy in your touch. You forget you wield a wand, not a cleaver."

Abraxas' ears turned a faint pink. "Sorry, sir," he muttered. "I don't think so, not on a school night," he murmured in a lower voice. "But I do want to join once school lets out."

"Good," Riddle replied softly. "Only five minutes are left, I suggest you start wrapping up." He addressed the class at large.

He hadn't expected the doors to burst open before he had a chance to dispose of the evidence of Dark Magic in his classroom.

"Tom," Minerva said, sweeping into a surprised class of seventh-year Defense Against the Dark Arts students, "I need to talk with you."

"Minerva!" Riddle exclaimed, quite shocked. He opened the windows with magic, and Lowther couldn't have flew away more quickly. "Can't this wait? They're learning about-"

"I think _my_needs are more important than theirs right now, Mr. Riddle," she retorted, seizing the front of his shirt. "You'd do well to remember that." She felt her ears heat as the class tittered, clearly interpreting her remark differently than she had intended.

"Minerva, there are students present," Riddle said, still shocked but not at all displeased. "Wait for me to-"

"Class _dismissed_," Minerva said with the finality she would later become famous for, and the students happily -and a bit fearfully- gathered up their books and hastily fled the classroom ten minutes early.. All of them, that is, except Eustacia Edgecomb and two of her friends. "Is there a problem, Miss Edgecomb?"

"Sir," the girl said sweetly, ignoring Minerva and addressing Riddle directly, "you never had a chance to give us our assignment since the class was... interrupted." She tossed her brown curls over her shoulder.

"What's the point?" Riddle asked carelessly. "The rest of the class won't know what it is, so I see very little point to it now. And for one so eager for an assignment, Miss Edgecomb, your own have been rather substandard." His lip curled as she flushed pink. "But you're welcome to give me an essay on the merits of turning a corpse into an animated host for a dark-"

"Tom!" Minerva sputtered. "What the hell are they _learning_?" Her eyes widened as she took in the classroom more fully for the first time since her entry, his desk stained with a good deal of regenerated toucan-blood.

"Purely theoretical, darling," Riddle said hurriedly, his hand straying to her hair to silence her for the time being. "Well, Edgecomb?"

The girl and her friends exchanged looks of glee upon seeing something that had furthered their appetites for intrigue. Yes, a few rumors had circulated about McGonagall and Riddle seeing one another, but this pretty much solidified all those rumors into a cohesive truth. Infatuated though she may be with the handsome professor, she was smart enough to see it as a passing fancy, nothing more, and she decided it would be enough to see the two teachers as a couple instead. After all, they were adorable together!

"I'll be going then, sir." She made no effort to conceal her smile. "Come on, girls." She gathered her bag and linked arms with one of her friends. "Professor, you have him all to yourself... so your 'needs' can be met..." She felt quite daring as she voiced it, maintaining a fairly straight face as her friend dissolved into giggles, exclaiming "Stacy, I can't believe you _said_that!" in disbelief.

Riddle smiled sardonically as Minerva flushed angrily. "Calm down, ma minette. Don't dock points for a bit of fun." He pulled her up to him. "She's right, after all. Why else couldn't you wait to see me...?"

"I think they need a spot of privacy," Eustacia Edgecomb managed, working very hard to keep a straight face. "Come on, ladies..." They staggered away, peals of laughter ringing from the hallway once the door slammed shut.

"Typical teenage girls," Riddle chuckled, putting his papers in order. "What do you have in mind, Minerva? Shall we go to my room? I certainly didn't expect this of you so early-"

"Tom!" she exclaimed. "Getting overeager, aren't you? I actually want to talk to you about something very serious. I just used poor phrasing is all."

"I'd call it a Freudian slip, myself," he said, kissing her temple. "What do you want to talk about?"

She pushed him away and narrowed her eyes, mind back on track. "Right. What's this I hear about the Death Eaters?"

Riddle shrugged. "Been checking up on me with Dumbledore? Oh, I forgot, he's Albus to you now." He looked at her sharply. "You're not spying on me for him, are y-"

"Darling," she interrupted smoothly, pushing him against the wall and playing with his collar, hastily trying to distract him. "Don't be jealous of an old man."

Riddle could clearly see what she was getting at. He leaned his forehead against hers. "Of course not, ma minette. Why are you asking about them?"

Minerva stood on tiptoes, bracing herself against his shoulders. "Shall we say I'm...intrigued?" she lied convincingly, fixing her eyes on his parted lips so she wouldn't have to make eye contact. She was well aware of his Legilimency prowess by now.

"Intrigued?" Riddle breathed, snaking his arms around her. "Go on."

"I want to know," she murmured, gently lifting his left arm up to their eye level, "what this is for." She kissed the Dark Mark lightly, almost teasingly. She smiled at him through her lashes when she felt a tremor pass through him. "And I suspect," she whispered, pressing herself against him even more, "that it has something to do with the Death Eaters."

"You should have been a Slytherin," Riddle said throatily, extricating his wrist from her hand and pulling her up for a kiss. "Why don't you join me at Cygnus' tonight? You can meet them."

Minerva let her eyes flutter shut, feeling Riddle go to work along her neck. "Will I find out what exactly they _are_though?" she asked, her hands pulling him closer.

"Maybe." Riddle was impressed. Sure, her acting left a lot to be desired, but it would fool the ordinary man –and he was anything but ordinary- and who was he to pass up an excuse to enjoy Minerva like this? He was certain now that Dumbledore knew his intentions towards Minerva, and had warned her about it. It was also certain that he had put her up to becoming a double agent, so he'd have an inside track to what his Death Eaters would be up to. He would have an easier time getting her to become a Death Eater since technically Dumbledore wanted her to go through with it, and he could always manipulate her feelings for him to the point that she wouldn't report _everything_to Dumbledore. Hell, if he could extract a confession of love from her, he'd be completely in the clear and he wouldn't have to worry about her spying on him. But until then..

"I can't have you running to Dumbledore and telling on me," he finished, pulling her head back. Her eyes opened slowly.

"Hmmm." She ignored his last. "When will we leave?"

"After your last class for the day," he replied. "Which is..."

She frowned, thinking. "Four o' clock, I think."

"Perfect," he said, letting go of her. "I'll be in my room. By the way," he said, a smile curling the corners of his mouth upwards, "what's this I hear about you being an organist?"

Minerva rolled her eyes. "My father was a minister. Of course I know organ, I played in church."

"Can you play a piano, then? I imagine they aren't very different."

"I could try," she said, shrugging. "Why do you ask?"

"Cygnus has a Steinway grand," Riddle explained. "I want them all to see how you make them pale in comparison."

"'Them' being the Death Eaters?" she asked sweetly. "Careful, Mr. Riddle, or I'll start to think you're showing me off."

"Who in his right mind wouldn't?" Riddle asked charmingly. "Go on, I have another class coming in momentarily."

Suddenly she remembered. "Wait! That bit about the essay! What all are you teaching the-"

"Another story for another time, ma minette!" Riddle said, sweeping to the door. "I'll tell you later."

"No, tell me n-"

"Certainly not, darling," Riddle said loudly and airily, holding the door ajar.

"Just tell-"

"Well, if you insist, I will," Riddle said theatrically with a flourish, slamming the door, shoving her into the doorway and kissing her til she was quite breathless. She felt the wood grate between her shoulder blades and his hands slipping lower. "But not now. At Cygnus' house," he whispered, pulling away abruptly as she inhaled deeply, a hand on her stomach.

"Are you trying to suffocate me?"

Riddle smirked. "Never. Now leave, I have a class and you probably do too."

"I'll meet you in your office at four-thirty, we'll floo."

"Perfect. And leave your hair down."

"Certainly not. You don't get one bit of attention from me til you tell me what you're teaching them."

"I won't tell you what I'm teaching them until you...attend to me." He frowned. "That didn't sound quite right.."

"I can hold out longer."

"No, I think you'll find I'm terribly patient when I want to be, ma minette. Now run along to your next class."

If anything, Minerva decided as she left, this gave Dumbledore's theory a good bit of weight. He was too relaxed, even eager, when he found out that she knew about his organization. And there was that bit about teaching his students evisceration by magic, by the looks of things. Things were not in his favor, if he wanted to stay in her good books, and yet... she had a sneaky feeling that she would be the first to cave. Minerva's sneaky feelings had not been wrong yet, but she found herself hoping that there was a first time for everything.

* * *

><p><em>Minerva's classroom<em>  
>"Oh, Pomona, I'm so glad you've come," she said, throwing her arms around the plump witch. "Dear, you need to dust yourself off after the greenhouses... I'm meeting Tom in ten minutes."<p>

"Things are getting serious then? It's a school night."

Minerva twisted her hair up again, securing it with a clip. "Yes, but Tom is part of an assignment and a relationship at this point. It's very complicated, though he would say otherwise... I'll tell you all about it once I get back. Which will very likely be late."

Pomona sighed. "Min, don't you think you're getting involved with Tom a bit quickly? You're usually so demure with men, and here you are, already barging into his classes-"

Minerva held up a hand. "Whoa. I had just found out something extremely important pertaining to my assignment, and the dramatic entrance was necessary. I mean, if I were to sidle up to him afterwards, and ask him about it sweetly, would he believe anything? He knows me well enough to know about my Scottish temper. Wait," she snapped suddenly, "how do you know I barged into his class?"

Pomona looked sympathetic. "I had Slytherin and Ravenclaw seventh years for herbology just now, and they were talking about it. Seems to me your little romance with Professor Riddle is quite a hit with the students... though some conspiracy theorists think it's a huge, mind-effing joke." She chortled. "'Mind-effing,' I ask you. Kids these days." She sighed. "We're just in our twenties, and our slang already seems out-dated."

"C'est la vie, Pomona," Minerva said with a shrug. "Do I look all right?"

"When do you _not_look all right?" Pomona scoffed. "Tell me what you find out, will you? I'm spending the evening with Poppy since you won't be joining us. See you tomorrow, Min."

Minerva blushed. "I'm _not_spending the night-"

"Oh, dear, you're too easily embarrassed!" Sprout patted her arm. "I'll be asleep before you get back, most likely. I didn't mean you two were...Wait. Horace told me..."

"Slughorn's full of shit," Minerva said, willing her cheeks to lose their color. "I fell asleep grading papers. Except I was in his room."

Pomona laughed. "I'm teasing, dear. Relax. Go have fun, it's nearly four-thirty. And tell me everything!" She wrinkled her nose. "Except anything I may not want to hear."

"Okay."

"Like whatever it is you two do together during those long, _nocturnal_, tete-a-tete-"

"Good_bye_, Pomona dearest." Minerva swept out of the room.

* * *

><p>Riddle was still wondering what exactly Dumbledore had told her about the Death Eaters. He was also a bit childishly disappointed that he wouldn't get to carry out his needlessly complicated plan. Oh well. He had an immortality of that before him. Minerva interrupted his reverie by bouncing into his office, smiling winningly in a simple tartan frock. "Oh dear God," Riddle groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tartan. Damnable, damnable, man-repelling tartan."<p>

Minerva twirled delightedly so her skirts would stand out. "Like it? I thought I'd make things easy for the both of us."

Riddle sighed. "At least you're as radiant as ever, even if your clothing is...questionable." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

"Certainly." She hesitated. "Would you mind terribly if we Apparate instead?" She winked. "I don't want to get any soot on my 'man-repelling' tartan."

"Very well," Riddle conceded. "And if we're spotted on the grounds, leaving together?"

"Oh, it'll be fine," she said, starting to kiss his cheek and pulling back once she remembered her bet. "So. We're going to a Death Eater meeting for our date."

"You could say that, yes."

"Fabulous." Their conversation carried them through the gates of Hogwarts, and fingers interlaced, they Apparated together.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm so sorry guys. This is going to have to be a two-parter. It was just getting so long-winded! I mean, it's eleven pages long, and written mostly in one sitting, and I'm tireeedddddd! Anyyyyyway. Hope y'all liked it! The date scene will be tomorrow. Leave a review too please! **


	20. A Death Eater Date, Part 2

A/N: Hey guys! Be proud of me; this was written in one sitting in two and a half hours! I quite enjoyed this chapter myself, and I hope you will too. Thank you to Sachita, Sarah, Aquitane, LittleMsGiggles and Eva; I always smile when I see your reviews in my inbox. Anyway, I give you Death Eater Date part II! Hope you guys like it.

* * *

><p>Minerva noticed Hagrid taking a scruffy barn owl into his house. "That's odd," she wondered aloud. "And just today he got a rabbit..." but she didn't have long to dwell on it.<p>

The distance to Cygnus Black's manor was too great for the two to reach it in just one bout of Apparation. Five stops later, Minerva found herself swaying in place in a well-lit street in one of the richer wizarding neighborhoods. "Dear lord, Tom. It's as though you're trying to give me motion sickness, or something."

"Or something," he replied easily, wrapping an arm around her. "Cygnus' is nearby, if you don't mind a short walk."

"Oh, damn it!" Minerva exclaimed, throwing up her arms and stepping backward unsteadily, having not quite gotten her bearings yet. "I left my cloak behind."

Riddle raised his eyebrows. "It's not too cold out." She stepped away from him, crossing her arms and staring at him pointedly. "What do you want me to do about it?" Riddle asked quizzically, still not getting it.

"Give me yours, obviously. This is where you're supposed to tenderly drape your coat along my shoulders, and put your arm around me again. Honestly, have you never read any cheaply written romance novels?"

"I flatter myself that I haven't." He rolled his eyes and bundled her up in his jacket. "And my opinion of you just dropped dramatically now that I know _you_ have, and actually _like_ those insipid cliches."

Minerva giggled. "I actually am nauseated by them. I just wanted to see if I could make you do something stupid for me." She poked him. "And I have."

He inclined his head. "Well played," he conceded. "Now, do you intend to delay us any further?" Minerva shrugged and put her arm through his.

"Which way, my Lord?" she inquired playfully.

Riddle started. "What did you just call me?"

She tilted her head. "'My Lord,'" she repeated. "What, you don't like it? I thought it might appeal to your self-important ways."

Riddle smiled mechanically. "Touching." They walked the short distance to Cygnus Black's manor along the brick avenues of _, Minerva appreciating the pretty scenery, with little pixies brushing glitter onto the winter tulips that lined the medians of the streets, and the green boughs of the pine trees peeking through the melting snow that encrusted them, while Riddle looked past them at the imposing manor house on the low rise a few yards away. It was a towering behemoth of slate grey stone, winter shrubbery hemming in the flowerbeds that grew on either side of the tiled walkway to the front door. It was an well-constructed house, but devoid of any real elegance or grace in its appearance.

Minerva tilted her head back as she took in the house. "Wow."

"Nice, isn't it?" He let the heavy knocker fall three times.

"I was going to go with 'ostentatious' but okay." She started as she felt his arm draw her next to him. "What are you doing?"

He arched a brow. "What do you mean?"

The door opened, this time by Cygnus himself rather than Skiffkins the house elf. "Afternoon, my Lo...oh." His voice trailed off. "I see you brought a guest."

"Now, we discussed this earlier, and I mentioned I would be bringing Minerva." Riddle stepped into the house without invitation, dragging her along with him. "You really must learn to pay attention, Cygnus," he added snidely over his shoulder, and Minerva couldn't help but wonder why Cygnus took the jibes without once expressing dislike. It was clear which man held the authority over the other. "Minerva, why don't you talk to Druella for a bit?" Riddle kissed her cheek lightly. "But don't stay away too long."

Minerva smiled innocently. "What's this? You can't be missing me after only a few moments."

"I'd never miss you." He turned to Cygnus. "When will the others get here?"

"Probably around five, my Lord." His voice was low. "And you're certain she can meet them, even sit in on a meeting?"

"Don't question my methods," Riddle replied. "I've planned this thing through. Now, how has recruitment proceeded in..." and they spoke for a while of the goings-on in wizard London.

Meanwhile, Minerva chatted with Druella. "So, you're married with a baby now. Time flies, doesn't it?"

Druella laughed. "I'm fine with it, though my attitude may change in another fifteen years." Minerva felt vaguely uncomfortable talking to her. Druella Black, nee Rosier, was pleasant enough and certainly pretty, with her strong-featured face and high cheekbones, but she had the bland, irreverent bearing of a woman born into a wealthy pureblood household with the luxury of never having worried about anything of substance. "Would you like to see the baby?"

"Certainly," Minerva replied, eager for something to bypass the awkward lapses in conversation she and Druella seemed to frequently encounter. She tapped her foot against the expensive Persian rug, glancing over to where Tom and Cygnus sat at the game table, evidently deep in discussion. Tom's brow was furrowed, and his long fingers were clenched on the armrests of his chair. Cygnus looked very grave at whatever news he was relating. She was jolted from her reverie when Druella returned with baby Bellatrix. "Oh, isn't she a darling," she said softly, taking the baby in her arms carefully.

"Thank you," Druella said proudly, settling down next to Minerva on the Victorian sofa. Bellatrix Black was a lovely baby, with a shock of soft black hair and dark eyes that sparkled when she gurgled. "I like to think she takes after me, but she's more like Cygnus."

"Has she shown any signs of magic yet?" Minerva asked, taking off her necklace and dangling it in front of Bella's face. As if in answer to her question the pendant on her necklace transformed into a stuffed kitten.

Druella adjusted the blankets. "Yesterday she made the lapwings come to her nursery window."

"Minerva, come here for a minute," Riddle called. Minerva stood. Perhaps a combination of the loud tone he used or her abrupt rising prompted Bella to start crying. Minerva gently soothed the infant as she walked over to Riddle. To her surprise, his lip curled. "Give her back to Druella, Minerva."

She was taken aback. "What's the matter, you don't like babies?"

"Not when they're squalling like that, no."

Minerva bounced the baby on her hip. "You're the one who upset her with your yelling. Why are you a teacher if you don't like children?"

"Give it." He took Bella from her with distaste, and set her on his lap. Minerva noticed Cygnus tense, and saw anxiety enter his face.

"She has a name, Tom."

"Whatever." Riddle drew little patterns in the air in front of Bella's face, little swirls of green, gold, and silver, all sparkling and reflected in the baby's wide eyes. She tried to grab at them with her chubby hands, but they dissipated as her small fingers closed around them. "She's stopped crying," Riddle noted.

Minerva's face softened as she regarded Riddle with the baby on his lap. Certainly a man who sat entertaining a baby couldn't genuinely dislike them. It was likely a facade he put on, finding such things embarrassing on his part. "You look good with a baby, Tom," she found herself saying.

"Do I?" He drew up a chair for her with a flick of his wand. "Why don't you join me, and I'll look twice as good."

She rolled her eyes. "You're such a flirt." She found herself annoyed at the ease with which he was able to send her mind into a delighted, distracted, fluttery state.

"You enjoy it." He tried to give Bella back to her, but the baby had affixed her hands to his shirt. "Care to... help with this?"

She laughed aloud delightedly. "No, she likes you! How adorable."

Riddle looked at her pleadingly. "_I'd_ really like to give her back now."

"Oh, darling." She turned his face and kissed him. "But you look so fatherly with her."

He made a wry face. "Heaven forbid I should look fatherly." He turned his attention back to the subject at hand. "Now, I said you would find out about the Death Eaters, didn't I?"

She nodded, trying to conceal her excitement. "You did."

"Very well then. And I also told you'd I'd explain how I got that little...injury, didn't I?"

Minerva rolled her eyes. "Stop drawing it out and _tell_ me, darling."

Cygnus sighed. "It's like I'm not even here," he said ruefully.

Riddle ignored him. "Observe," he said, starting to pull up his shirtsleeve, stopping when he realized he'd drop Bella if he continued further. "Um..."

Minerva took the baby from him, looking on interestedly as he pressed the scar and it burned black. She was rather repulsed when she saw the snake clearly for the first time, and to her disgust it was protruding from a skull's open jaw. It slithered in place on his arm, and it clearly was a painful experience, as she noticed his arm tighten. "Don't tell me _you_ carved that into your skin, Tom. I was thinking about taking you to meet my parents for the weekend, and if you're a self-mutilator I'm already having second thoughts."

Riddle smiled at her boyishly. "Don't worry, I didn't."

"Really."

"Yes. I branded it. Much quicker."

Minerva was not amused. "And why, dare I ask?"

"You'll see in a minute." As if to emphasize his point, several Death Eaters apparated into the room without warning, masks, hoods, and robes all in place. They stopped a bit confusedly when they realized where they were, but knelt all the same as Riddle strode to the center of the room to stand among them. Minerva felt oddly self concious, standing with a baby as all the others were on their knees. Riddle smiled sardonically. "You too, Minerva. You wanted to join us for a meeting. On your knees."

Minerva snorted. "Of course not. We're not at that stage in our relationship yet. Don't get overeager." She smiled with satisfaction as the world's arguably greatest dark lord actually blushed and averted his eyes. "Slow down, crazy," she added in a manner much like the Sassy Gay Friend youtube sensation some sixty years later. "Slow down."

"You know that's not what I- though if you want... But of course I don't have that in mind- at least, not til you-" He groaned, frustrated and furious with himself for that display in front of his followers. "Fine. Stay standing." He found that he had quite lost command of the meeting already, and decided to skip formalities. "Let's get straight to business, gentlemen." They stood around him, concealing grins. Except for Dolohov, who dared to chuckle. Riddle glared. "Remove your masks. You won't be needing them tonight."

"I know what _he'll_ be needing...or getting... tonight," Doholov snickered, elbowing Yaxley. He then found himself unable to talk, and therefore unable to cast a countercurse to Riddle's silencing charm.

Minerva took his arm, smiling sweetly. "What are they _for_, darling?"

Riddle ignored her, wrapping his arm around her waist. "Minerva here is interested in joining our cause-"

"Which I have to find out more about before I can join-" she interjected hastily, but Riddle waved her words away as if they were of no consequence and continued speaking.

"-and is sitting in on one of our meetings."

Minerva wrinkled her nose. Riddle kissed the tip of it. The Death Eaters exchanged looks. Dolohov chuckled again.

"Dolohov!" Riddle barked sharply. "Explain to ma mie here what we stand for."

"Um. Pureblood supremacy, and..." Dolohov furrowed his brow, thinking. "Do you want me to mention the other things, or-"

"Malfoy, help the moron out," Riddle said, making a mental note to flay Dolohov alive later. Leave it to him to make his organization seem like the brainchild of an immature madman, with complete idiots for members.

The sad part was, it was a rather accurate appraisal of the future of the Death Eaters.

"The Death Eaters are the dar..._Tom's_ means of acclimatizing the wizarding public to the idea of keeping magic restricted to those that actually are worthy of the art," Malfoy said smoothly, understanding what Riddle wanted. "We merely promote the idea that magic is best suited to those with it far back in their ancestry. Naturally, this means more pureblooded families are desirable, but.." He shrugged, nonchalant. "We can't afford Squibs demanding wands, can we?"

Minerva frowned. "Sounds very utopian, Tom. What's up with the scar?"

"The dark mark lets me summon them whenever I want, and let's me know when they're calling me," he replied offhandly.

"Mmhmm," she said skeptically. "And why is it the _dark_ mark, and the _Death_ Eaters? Bit morbid, don't you think?"

Riddle had anticipated the question, and had already formulated an answer he was quite proud of. "I was going to go with Death Munchers, but Cygnus convinced me not too. Fortunate, too; it would have sounded ridiculous." He laughed.

"I see." Minerva sat through the meeting, which consisted mainly of the men briefing Tom on various successes and highly glossed over failures, often spoken of in what she suspected were deliberately vague terms so she'd be at a loss on the their true nature. Still, the evening, as far as evenings went, was enjoyable. She noticed the men looked at her appraisingly -she liked to think it was the tartan dress, though she knew otherwise- evidently, they realized Tom's behaviour was altered as a result of her presence, though for better or worse she couldn't tell. The whole thing seemed ridiculous, though. Pureblood supremacy was perhaps the most ridiculous cause to strive for, and as far as she knew, it would never work. Obviously there was more to the Death Munchers than Tom was letting on, and obviously she'd have to go along with his bullshit "pureblood supremacy" excuse if she wanted to find out more. It was still more obvious that he was the uncontestable leader of the group. She found herself relieved that she'd have nothing very incriminating to report to Albus, however. She wasn't fond of the possiblity of Tom getting in trouble. The dinner went well, and the wine to follow was excellent, but Riddle made no sign of leaving, insisting she visit the greenhouses with him.

The foliage was dense, and it was quite as though they'd stepped into a rainforest instead of an upscale _ home, Minerva decided. She felt Riddle's hand find her own as he pointed out various types of plants and insects. There were snakes as well, she discovered, hanging from the branches, wrapped around chair legs, and even slithering underfoot on occasion. Riddle laughed when she started for the first time. "They aren't poisonous," he said as her fingers tightened in his own. Raising his voice a bit, he made odd, slightly strangled hissing noises, and the snakes all came forward and gathered around them at whatever he said.

"Tom!" Minerva involuntarily clutched his arm. "Stop that."

Riddle spoke to the snakes again. A long eastern snake remained, rising up to eye level, and seemed to glare at Minerva malevolently. "This is Nagini," Riddle said casually. "I think she's jealous of you." He spoke to the snake, and it hissed back before turning and slithering away. "Apparently you're 'pretty enough for me' to use her words," he chuckled. "Definitely jealous."

"I'm seriously starting to question why I like you so much," Minerva said, still watching the disappearing tail of the snake. "Clearly I'm insane, or just desperate."

"Come now, ma minette," Riddle said, pushing her against a tree and holding her in place. "Am I really that bad?"

"Of course not. Stop that-" His fingers were interlaced with her own, and he held them a bit above her head so she was quite immobilized.

"Why should I?"

"I'm nervous."

"Why in the world would you be nervous? It's just me."

She gripped his hands tightly, trying to force her arms down. "It just feels a bit...wrong, being out with you like this when we're _guests_ in someone's house. Really, this is the sort of thing you read in trashy-"

"-romance novels?" Riddle interrupted, bending down so their faces weren't far apart. "Forgive me for sounding like the girlfriend in this relationship, but we need to talk, and get something settled here."

"You're hurting me." She kept her tone insolent even as she winced. Riddle's grip on her fingers had become crushing rather than reassuring.

Riddle flung her hands away. "What's the matter with you?"

Minerva's eyes widened at the sudden roughness. "What do you mean?"

"It's always 'stop it, Tom. People can see us, Tom. It feels wrong to be with you, Tom. But Tom, let's make out and see one another nonstop whenever _I_ feel like it, darling, because obviously anything I initiate is okay. Oh dear.. that was a terrible imitation of you." He frowned, and seemed to shake himself before regaining his anger. Riddle seized her shoulders in a white knuckled grip, his eyes flashing scarlett. "Do you honestly want to be with me? Tell me."

Minerva knew she shouldn't laugh, but the way he constantly voiced his every tangential thought was truly amusing. She tried to fight it, but gave up and giggled. She surprised herself when she realized she wasn't afraid in the slightest even as Tom's face grew exponentially more pissed off. More than anything else, she felt as though the moment was surreal, and she was watching a pale version of herself, pinned against a tree by a maddened Tom in the dark atrium, the room devoid of light, her face vaguely worried. Even her voice sounded foreign to her when she spoke. "Of course I do. Why can't you understand that I'm conflicted about this?"

"Conflicted!" Riddle laughed derisively, letting go of her with some violence. "Oh, Minerva, why do you insist on lying to me? It's not a complicated thing."

"Tom, I-" Her initial reaction would be to say 'I love you' or some such confession, but it was terrifically cliche and it wasn't true- yet, anyway. "I have a lot of things on my mind, and as a result I'm conflicted." It was the most oblique reference she could make to her two disjointed assignments without telling him of them explicitly or even hinting at them.

His back had been to her, but he turned suddenly, gathering her up to him. "Do you want to be with me or not? Is that the source of all this random hesitancy to be seen with me like this? We're among friends, after all, not students."

"Of course I do, but-"

"Then what's the problem? Do I embarrass you?"

She tried to laugh. "Yes, but that's not why I'm hesitant. I don't like the idea of Albus-" She stopped speaking having realized her mistake as he cupped her cheek, eyes boring into hers intently. Frantically, she tried to empty her mind, and found herself regretting cutting class years ago on the day they had learned Occlumency. She wasn't sure how much she'd been able to conceal.

Riddle sighed, raising a hand to his face and letting go of her. "How willing are you to give what I'm doing a fair trial?"

Something about his behaviour, be it the sudden lack of fire in his voice or the obvious reigned in violence in his touch frightened her where his temper had failed to. She always felt she could be callously flippant with him, operating under the assumption that his feelings were impervious to mortal jibes. Now, she was worried by his pensive silence, and his curiously distant feel. Perhaps a combination of these factors prompted her to go to him, turning his face towards hers, and kiss him repeatedly, assuring him she'd be more than generous in her judgement. "Please, darling, forgive me." She wasn't sure why she was apologizing, nor what she was apologizing for.

Riddle smirked inwardly. "I was never mad at you, ma minette." He laughed. "The honeymoon's over, I suppose. We'll be at one anothers' throats more often now, I'll venture."

"Tom, hypothetically, of course- what would you have done if I had said no, I _don't_ want to see you again?" She felt unreasonable alarm rise when his face darkened. "Hypothetically, darling. I wouldn't dream of it."

"Why, I'd very likely go on a murdering spree, my rage untempered by your angelic presence," Riddle said quite honestly. The lovely thing about the truth in these situations was that it was so ridiculous, it would never be believed as such.

She laughed, relieved. "Really, now, be serious."

"Oh, but I am."

"You're a mess."

"You lost the bet."

She frowned. "So I have." She glanced in the direction of the exit. "Shouldn't we be getting back, though? I'm not in favor of this here and now."

"Ah, so by deconstruction you _would,_ be elsewhere and later." Riddle ignored her, untying the ribbons on the sides of her dress. "As if they don't know about you and I."

She stopped his hands. "Not appropriate."

"Not caring."

"Not...willing."

"Not convinced."

"Not relevant," she said. "The fact that I said 'no' makes any contact technically unwanted, and prolonged unwanted contact is technically rape in a court of law." She smiled smugly. "What now?"

"This," he replied, and kissed her. "And this," he added, kissing her again, "and this," he concluded softly, kissing her a third time.

She smiled, eyes closed. "Couldn't wait after all, could you," she murmured, looking up at him through half lidded eyes.

"I can wait indefinitely."

"I for one can't," she replied. "Let's head back to Hogwarts; it's late and a school night."

They thanked Cygnus and Druella, Minerva kissing Bella goodbye and insisting Riddle do the same. It was quite hilarious to see him brush his lips against the baby's rosy cheek, loathing in his eyes as he looked at Minerva, who stood with Druella smiling maddeningly. They Disapparated together, arriving back at Hogwarts around nine. It was only a matter of moments before they were in her room, Minerva changing into a nightdress behind the screen in the corner, Riddle shamelessly examining the contents of her desk. When she asked him about it, he shrugged. "You obviously went through my things," he insisted, "So I'm justified," and he refused to elaborate further. "By the way," he added, "I enjoyed you in tartan very much."

"Did you, now?" she asked, worming into bed. "An excuse to wear it more often. Oh, and we should really stop making a habit of sleeping in one anothers' rooms...it's conducive to gossip, you know."

"You aren't doing anything wrong," Riddle pointed out, settling next to her on the bed and massaging her scalp after brushing out her hair. "You make it sound as though we're sleeping together."

"True, but the staff and children don't know that," she replied, eyes falling shut.

"You worry too much about appearances."

"I can't help it," she murmured drowsily. "So I plan to become a regular at Death Muncher meetings, you know."

"Eater," he corrected. "And I'm glad to hear it. Intrigued after all?"

"Reasonably," she said, resting her head on his chest. She felt his hand at the small of her back. "I didn't give you permission to stop with the hair. Keep your hands where I want them."

Riddle laughed, and deliberately ran his fingers along the curves in her spine. "I don't take orders from you. And I punish insubordination very sharply."

"It seems we have reached an impasse," she muttered.

"Go to sleep."

"Why don't you, too?"

"Sleep is for mortals."

"Careful, though," she pointed out before nodding off. "You'll lose your good looks as soon as you gain your immortality. 'Night, dearest."

Riddle leaned against the pillows. "At least she didn't use my shoulder as a pillow this time," he mused aloud.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Ahahaha. So Bellatrix liked Voldy even when she was under a year old. Anehwae, you know you're too invested in fanfiction when you start talking like Voldy randomly at school, and decide anyone who can't flirt like him is a loser. XD I'm extremely busy at the present, so weekend updates are my best bet right now. Know what motivates me to write and update sooner? Reviews. ;) Get on that if you want to find out what happens next. **

**Voldy: Pushy little brat, aren't you?**

**me: Shut up and go snog McGonagall some more.**

**Haha. Review please! :D**


	21. NOT Valentine's DayComedic Interlude II

A/N: Thank you to all my lovely reviewers, namely Eva, Sachita, 13opals, Sherbet, Aquitane, and Sarah. I can't believe I've reached 60 reviews thanks to you all! I always get super excited when my email alerts me to a new review, so I can't say "thank you" quite enough. Now, because I was suffering from a bit of writer's block, I penned this little bit here during Spanish class. This chapter consequentially has a bit of a Comedic Interlude, Round II. Hope you enjoy.

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><p>"Tom," Minerva said, sitting on the edge of his desk, "do you know what day it is today?"<p>

"I haven't the slightest idea, ma minette," Riddle said absentmindedly as he glanced over exams. "Tell me."

Minerva frowned petulantly. "It's the fourteenth."

Riddle didn't look up from his work. "Fourteenth? What should I do about it?"

"Does Valentine's Day ring a bell?"

"Ah. Well, I can fix that," Riddle said smoothly, standing and kissing her.

"Okay, cut!"

Riddle pulled away, throwing his hands up in annoyance as Minerva gave a little sigh and sat on her hands. "_What_? What could possibly have gone wrong _that_ time? That's the _fourth time_ we had to do that scene!"

Minerva sighed again and drummed her fingers on the desk. "Aren't you being a bit unreasonable? I thought his acting was just fine."

The Girl hopped down from her director's chair and unrolled the script. "Um, it's very specific the way I wrote it." She tossed her dark hair behind her shoulders, turned to a page in the script, and straightened to her full height before beginning her critique. "First of all, he says 'no, but maybe I can fix that,' and when you kiss her, my Lord, you're supposed to do it-" she paused for effect- "most _attentively_ and _tenderly_." She looked up at them. "So do it again, take... five, is it?"

"Now wait just a minute," Riddle demanded. "I thought I did a pretty convincing job."

"Eh, looked more perfunctory to me," the girl replied flippantly, hopping back into her director's seat, stuffing a handful of Cheetos into her mouth from a nearby bowl, and wiping her hands off on her jeans. "Action!" she barked, spewing crumbs.

"But you'll never be satisfied!" Riddle pointed out. "You'll have me do the scene over and over, just so you can see me kiss _her_!" He waved a hand in Minerva's direction.

"Careful, my Lord. Don't imply you'd rather do anything else," the girl said slyly, wagging a finger at him.

"Yeah, what was that supposed to mean?" Minerva snapped. "I'm not good enough?"

"What? No, that's besides the-" Riddle began, only to be interrupted.

"My Lord!" the girl exclaimed, looking scandalized. "You find her so unappealing that you hate repeating the scene til you get it right?"

"What are you saying, Tom?" Minerva demanded. "You'd rather do _anything_ rather than kiss me? You're just _pretending_ to, anyway. For a bloody _play_."

"Yes." Minerva hopped off the desk, arms crossed and severely offended. "Wait, I meant no!" he amended hastily.

"I knew it!" crowed the girl.

Riddle groaned. Clearly, there was too much estrogen in the room. "Can I finish?"

"No!" they both ordered.

Minerva tapped her foot impatiently. "You've already put your foot in your mouth quite enough for one day, don't you think?"

Riddle picked his script up off the desk and flung it away violently. "Well, I don't give a damn. I'm going to bloody well finish, and you're going to listen." He advanced on the girl who looked at him coolly, completely unperturbed.

"Fine," she replied, not budging an inch. "We're listening."

"Stop trying to turn the subject to irrelevant matters," Riddle fumed. "You're a depraved... a depraved _shipper_, that's what you are! And stop that smiling," he added as the girl began to beam, "that's nothing to be proud of. You only wrote that piece of trash," he continued, frantically waving an arm in the direction he threw the script, "so you could fulfill your twisted fantasy of directing a love scene between the two of us. Well, I won't have any more of it!" he concluded, turning his back on her.

"Sorry, but you're under contract."

Riddle whirled around. "What did you say?"

The girl held up an aluminum briefcase. "You're under contract. You don't get paid unless you play the role to my satisfaction. Now, I think about five more takes should do it," she said as she started back to her director's chair.

"Minerva!" Riddle burst out, turning to her with a purely demented look in his scarlet eyes, "are you going to sit quietly and take her orders? Let's quit."

"Um, I don't really want to...I'm okay with doing the scene over if you want to know the truth," she said, shrugging and sitting on the other side of the desk, swinging her legs.

"Why the hell would you want to do the scene over?" Riddle exclaimed. The whole thing was quite maddening and had turned into a nightmare. "She's crazy! She's a Muggle! Why would you... _oblige_ her?"

Minerva shrugged again. "You're a good kisser."

Riddle hadn't really been listening as he barrelled on. "That's a completely _idiotic_ rea- wait, what did you say?"

She rolled her eyes. "I _said_ you're a good kisser." Riddle was for once too surprised to retort. "Like, a _really_ good kisser."

Riddle frowned. "I... thank you...I don't know how to respond to that."

"I mean, I see nothing wrong with doing the scene over about.. what was it, like ten more times?"

"Only five, actually," interjected the girl, "but I like ten much better." She smiled winningly. "Shall I call the camera crew?"

"See what you've done?" Riddle hissed. "That settles it. Don't pay me, see if I give a damn. I quit," he told the girl, and grabbed his coat and wand to leave.

"You can't quit!" Minerva snapped. "I want to get paid!"

"He can't anyway," the girl said happily. "He has to complete the job to my satisfaction before he can quit-"

"I don't have to complete anything to anyone's satisfaction!" Riddle exploded, "especially a substandard teenage wannabe playwrite, with an unhealthy obsession with me!"

"Tom, be reasonable," Minerva began, but Riddle had worked himself into a full-on tirade and would not stop now.

"You _have_ to follow the terms of the contract," the girl said, folding her arms and assuming an irritatingly superior expression.

Riddle leaned down so his face was only a few inches away from the girl's. She didn't flinch, to his disappointment. "You're forgetting one very important factor, you imbecile," he whispered in a voice of deadly calm. "You're dealing with Lord-_f*cking_-Voldemort. Avada Kedavra!" A blast of electric green light filled the room, and the girl dropped to the floor, lifeless. "Ah, that felt good," he said with satisfaction as Minerva sputtered in indignation. Riddle whirled on her next. "And as for _you_!" he began, livid again as he started towards her. "Who the hell do you think you are, not supporting me when I was trying to get us out of a damn contract neither of us wanted to be in in the first place? How did you repay me for my generosity in _including_ you?" He was so absorbed in his rant he didn't notice her slip down from the desk and walk towards him. "I think I've dealt with you and your _bad_ _acting-_"

"Bad acting?" she exclaimed, offended.

"-yes, I said _bad acting_- long enough! Avada-"

His words were cut short when she pulled his face down and kissed him, this time with none of the pretense required by the script and simple modest decency. He felt his fingers slacken and heard his wand clatter to the floor as he dropped it. Minerva pulled away and smiled sweetly. "You were saying?"

"Kedavra," he finished weakly. "Um. Why don't we...ah...go over that scene...maybe five times...maybe ten... however many it takes us to...ah...get it right."

"That's what I thought you said," she smirked, and hopped up onto the desk. "Shall we begin?"

Riddle complied, and noticed out of the corner of his eye the girl's hands slowly pulling her body back up into the director's seat, a wan but triumphant smile on her features. "Damn," he heard her mutter. "I need to stop pissing him off to the point that he feels he has to kill me. I can't keep shaking these killing curses off forever..."

Even as he went on with the scene, a single thought entered his mind and refused to leave: _why can't I kill her_?

"Because," the girl said snidely, as if she had heard his thoughts, clapping him on the shoulder, "_I'm_ the one who decides what happens. _I'm_ the author. And you can only do what_ I_ tell you." She left, calling over her shoulder, "That's a wrap, guys! You two were fantastic!" She said the last word in a singsong trill, twirling out of the room with her arms outspread and colliding with the wall. "I'm okay!" she called weakly.

Riddle's face darkened. "The sooner I devise a way to kill her, the sooner this nightmare ends." And then, he thought of the perfect solution.

* * *

><p>Riddle bolted upright, his hand flying to his wand on the nightstand. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room, he tried frantically to recollect the method he'd use to kill the irritating Muggle girl. "Damn it," he muttered, fists clenched. "Why can't I recall..."<p>

"Tom?" Minerva opened her eyes. "Is something the matter?"

"I-" He stopped, and realization washed over him, mixed with relief. "Ah. It must have been a dream."

"I see." She glanced at the clock. "Well, it's early enough. We have time. What happened?"

"Nothing of import or interest," he said, trying to keep his voice casual.

"Really?" Minerva placed a cool hand on his cheek. "You're all clammy."

"I'm perfectly fine." He gestured vaguely. "Your room is stifling."

"Why don't you humor me and tell me what happened in the dream?" She closed her eyes again, leaning against him. "You owe me that for waking me up. It's 3 am."

"Fine." Riddle leaned against the headboard. "I'll condense the horror to a few sentences. We were acting out a play for a depraved teenage girl who was obsessed with us. It was a poorly written romance sketch for-" He stopped. "Wait, what day is it today?"

"The twelfth, why?"

"No reason." Riddle looked away with a grimace, letting out his held breath in a sharp hiss. Okay, he had two days. "Anyway, she refused to let me out of my contract, and you sided with her. And then when I tried to kill her, she _wouldn't die._" Riddle exhaled loudly. "And that's about it. Minerva, if you had seen the girl, you would understand how maddening it was, to fire off killing curses and have none of them-"

"Wait, wait, wait. Why did you try to kill her?" Minerva was suddenly alert at this latest.

"It was a dream, ma minette."

"I don't like it anyway." Minerva settled down against him again. "That's not exactly what you should be thinking about. Dreams reflect what your mind is fixated on.."

"Makes sense," Riddle said softly, trying for a different angle. "That's why you were in the dream."

Minerva smiled and blushed. "Nice subject change. I like it very much. Now go back to sleep."

"I think I'll be going, actually," Riddle replied, and pressing a quick kiss to her temple, he slipped out of her bed and back into his own room. "Now," he murmured, once alone, "let's see if we can dredge up any instances of the killing curse backfiring." As he passed a mirror en route to the restricted section of the library, he caught a glimpse of his face. The eyes were bloodshot, and his skin was ashen. He sighed. "Not very impressive...not very Dark Lord either... not yet."

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><p><em>Dueling Club meeting<em>

"One of the things it's imperative that you learn about dueling," Riddle said slowly, seeming to make eye contact with every student in the room, "is that when one is placed in a perilous situation, with nothing more than one's knowledge, intuition, and wand, orthodox practices are not always sufficient." He paused, letting the implications of what he was saying sink in. "When you're in the position that you are dueling for more than practice, or an extracurricular, you can't afford stringent limitations on your offense. When your survival comes down to you besting your opponent, refusal to push the boundaries of magic results in nothing more than your own demise. When you are dueling a dark wizard, nearly any mode of attack becomes acceptable." The students were silent. "Minerva," Riddle asked, turning to where she stood on the opposite end of the platform, "would you say all is fair in war?"

"They're only practicing, Tom," she reminded him. "And the quote is 'all's fair in love and war.'"

"I know the quote," he said, eyes glinting dangerously. "Suffice it to say," he continued, addressing the students again, "we are simulating a duel in the real world. Do not hold back." He took Minerva's hand and helped her off the platform. "You may begin," Riddle declared, and the students separated into pairs based primarily on years. "Minerva," Riddle added, "you take care of the younger- Minerva, are you listening to me?"

"Sorry, darling," Minerva grimaced. "I have a terrible headache and the noise isn't doing any good. Oh, and good job."

Riddle looked at her quizzically. "With what?"

"You haven't called me 'ma minette' or 'ma mie' or any such terms of endearments in la langue de l'amour... which, by the way, seems to be your specialty." She pursed her lips. "Most professional. I'm rather impressed, and I'm starting to miss it just a bit."

Riddle slipped behind her, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Are you? I thought you wanted everything behind closed doors."

Minerva reached up behind him to touch his face. "Obviously I'm all right with it now."

His hands rested on her waist, and she turned to face him, lips slightly parted, their noses brushing as she did. She tilted her head back, unsure of what she was waiting for. He dipped his head down and she closed her eyes, expectant. "Miss Edgecomb is watching," he whispered against her cheek to her surprise. "Just letting you know."

"You are impossible," Minerva breathed, turning again and leaning her head back against his shoulder. "I'll go monitor the younger kids, then. I think I've given Miss Edgecomb quite enough of a show."

"Excellent idea," Riddle said softly, pulling away. "Headache gone, I suspect."

"Oh no, it's still there," she replied, grimacing again. "But you do wonders for it."

Riddle's face softened. "Do you want me to handle it myself today if you aren't feeling well?"

"I'll be fine," she insisted. "Thanks though."

"Very well," Riddle said, looking on for a moment with mild concern as she instructed the fifth years in counterjinxes. "Edgecomb," he barked, "I thought I was very clear. Nonverbal only at this stage."

"Sorry, Professor," she pouted. "Alice isn't either, tell her."

"Miss Bulstrode, you are not exempt from the rules." Riddle stood behind Eustacia Edgecomb. "Let's see how closely you were listening during lectures," he said in a quiet, dangerous tone.

The two seventh years dueled in an inexpert fashion, the spells more than once straying to dark magic with Riddle's encouragement. It ended, to Riddle's chagrin, in quite an anticlimactic fashion, with Eustacia Edgecomb casting a rather tame bat bogey hex, and Alice Bulstrode retaliating with a shield charm followed by a simple disarming spell. Even so, he concluded, perhaps it was time he amassed the most gifted and daring of the students. Voldemort's Youth Party could officially begin. He had certainly curried enough favor after all. He wasn't aware that Minerva's eyes had strayed towards him more than once during the lesson, widening as she saw him encourage the older students with various unorthodox spells.

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><p><em>Minerva's Chambers<em>

The evening found Minerva holed up in her room, leaning back in bed with a slew of papers around her. She had never before felt quite so miserable in her life, and was bitterly regretting the steak and kidney pie she had indulged in for dinner that evening. Assisting with the dueling lesson that day had also been a mistake, she reflected. In hindsight, perhaps it would have been smarter to leave it to Tom for the day and just supervise, rather than assist with the actual teaching. She could do with a visit to Poppy... but then she'd have to leave the delicious warmth of her bed... She groaned and collapsed back onto her pillow. To make matters worse it was February, so the second she slid out of bed the chill would crash over her like a wave. And to think, she wouldn't have even gotten sick if it weren't for the stupid snowball fight Tom had insisted she have with him the other night. Or perhaps it was her decision to go for a nice flight that morning without being properly attired for it.. no, it was much easier to blame Tom.

She blew her nose. "Damn it," she said crossly. "That doesn't look very good at all." The spent tissue landed amongst her papers. "And now I've degenerated into a common slob," she said dully. "Fantastic."

There was a knock at the door. "I'm humoring you today by observing the formalities," Riddle called. "May I enter?"

"It's open," Minerva replied flatly, not in the mood for his fun. "Evening, darling. As you can see I'm-" he cut her off as he kissed her hello. "-sick," she finished, pushing him away. "I'm sick, you idiot, can't you tell?"

Riddle frowned. "What do you have? Have you seen Pomfrey?" He eyed the used tissues and handkerchiefs around her. "Oh hell. You aren't contagious, are you?"

"I don't think it's anything serious, probably just a generic cold virus. I've probably given it to you now, since you can't seem to keep your hands off me." She couldn't help but smile as she said it, even though her voice was slightly nasal. "What's the matter, the fearless leader of the Death Munchers if afraid of the common cold?"

Riddle laughed. "Shut up. You sound like a cartoon character. Besides, I can't even touch you- my hands are full."

Minerva glanced at the books he held. "So I see. And they are?"

"Transfiguration Monthly for you," he replied, tossing the magazine onto her bed, "the Prophet for me," he added, pulling the paper off the top of the stack, "and some light reading for the both of us this weekend." He tipped the books onto the foot of her bed. Minerva inched towards them, giving up after five minutes of pointless wriggling, and simply summoned one to her hands.

"Tom, this book is about the dark arts."

"Ah, so it is. Fancy that." Riddle carefully cleared a spot on the bed and sat next to her. "It's quite an intriguing read; I came across that one in my third year. You should enjoy it."

"Why?" She blew her nose again. "Why so much reading on dark magic?"

"I'm the defense against the dark arts _teacher_, ma minette, remember? You really _are_ sick."

"Defense is different from the art itself, Tom."

Riddle sighed. "What happened to you giving what I'm doing a fair chance?"

Minerva leaned against him. "Fine."

"Good." He flipped to the first page. "Shall we begin?"

Minerva snapped the book shut. "In case you haven't noticed, I feel like complete crap. Why don't you be a nice little gentleman and fix me some tea?" She saw his expression grow annoyed. "Please, darling?" she entreated, pouting. "I'm not feeling well."

"Manipulative little shrew, aren't you." Something, call it a sixth sense, or as Tom would say, intuition, told her he was being completely serious. "I'm assuming you want lemon with that."

"You assume correctly."

"You won't mind, of course, if I bring enough for two people."

"Not at all."

Left alone again with her papers, the new books and magazine, and her own sense of unhealthy misery, Minerva tried to evaluate the recent efforts of her third years with finches to bluebirds. She had always found that type of Transfiguration to be easier, since such a complicated degree of atom rearrangement wasn't necessary. Of course, that alone made results anything short of excellence to be failure. She couldn't seem to focus, though, and more than once found her eyes straying and lingering on _Magicke Moste Evil_, Tom's little present to her for 'light reading.' She highly suspected that his unusual choice of reading matter was linked to the Death Munchers, and was interested to hear his strictures on them before she read any of the text. Actually, if she thought back on it, she had often seen him in the restricted section during their time together at school... it made a lot more sense now. And she would have to monitor his classes during her free periods as soon as she was feeling well... she could always make the pretense of wanting more time with him, and he needed to be watched. She was quite certain evisceration was _not_ on the syllabus, not even for NEWT level seventh years.

"Earl Grey, Minerva?"

"Oh, I'm not much of a fan," she said, a bit disappointed. "But thanks anyway, you're sweet for-"

"I lied. It's Darjeeling for you."

"Aren't you attentive?" She took the cup from him with a smile. "Most just call it 'Scottish Breakfast,' though."

"I'm aware. For a little while there I considered getting Irish Breakfast for you, but I didn't want to start an international incident." He raised a brow. "Didn't start reading yet?"

"I'm exhausted. I'll be lucky if I can teach my classes tomorrow," she muttered, sipping her tea. "So how do all these books tie into the Death Munchers?" She knew she had hit on something important when he started almost imperceptibly, and tried to gloss it over by stroking her hair.

"They don't.. not exactly." He gestured to the one next to her. "Not that one, for instance. The history texts will give you more of an idea."

"Ah. And any particular reason you begin every dueling lesson with encouragement to push the boundaries just a little?" She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Weren't you the poster child for staying within the lines during the school days?"

"Noticed that, did you?" he murmured. "You're keeping quite the close eye on me, Minerva. What will you do if I grow tired of your company...and constant scrutiny?"

"Answer the question, Tom." She looked up at him through her lashes. "And that sounded almost like a threat."

"I don't want the students to be hampered by any inclination towards hesitancy while dueling, something that comes from stringent restrictions on which spells can and can't be used." Riddle twirled one of her locks around his finger. "And just because I appeared to follow the rule does not mean I lived by them like you suggest. No self-respecting schoolboy ever does."

"Tell me more about that dream you had," she said, changing the subject. "Remind me why you felt the need to kill the girl?"

Riddle's face darkened as he scowled. "Oh, Minerva, if you had seen her you would understand. She was demonic. It wasn't like killing a person, it was like killing a fly. A pesky, irritating, maddening little fly that buzzes around your ears and refuses you even ten minutes of respite."

"So killing people is okay if they aren't really people. That's what you seem to believe."

Riddle thought carefully before he answered. "Would it have been acceptable for the Muggle Allied powers to kill Hitler if they had the chance?"

"Of course." She looked at him curiously. "How do you know about-"

"I'm well-read," he said hurriedly. "And if it were successfully proved that a race of people was inhuman in its behavior, would it be wrong to extinguish them?"

"You're being stupid." Minerva was too tired to argue, but she did not like what she was hearing. "So you get to decide who is human and who isn't. Is that it? If I decided you were inhuman, Tom, then I could kill you and not feel bad, because as far as I'm aware, you just aren't a person. Is that it?"

Riddle kissed her again, savoring the new taste of lemon and black tea on her lips. "You would never kill me, ma mie."

She opened her eyes, her question and his avoidance of answering forgotten. "You've probably made yourself sick now."

Riddle coughed. "And if I have, it's your fault."

She snorted. "You're the idiot that insists on kissing a decrepit, sick woman."

Riddle ignored her, instead saying, "Should I assume I won't be sleeping in your room again?"

"You should go to your own room, and try and purge yourself of whatever germs of mine you've... ingested." She frowned. "That sounds really gross."

"I don't think it'll make a difference now." He propped himself up on an elbow. "Besides, we've pretty much made this a habit."

Minerva closed her eyes. "Perhaps we should move past this stage, then." She realized what she was saying just as the words left her mouth. To her relief Riddle chuckled, and even though she blushed she found she preferred this type of response to the more crude, ungentlemanly one.

"You really _are_ sick, Minerva. You wouldn't be talking like this otherwise." He left her, closing the door behind him as he did. She could swear that she heard him speaking with someone outside, but fatigue won eventually and she drifted off to sleep.

Riddle had slipped out of Minerva's room as stealthily as was possible, ready for a night of discussion with his loyal Basilisk. Unfortunately, as he passed Slughorn's door, it opened wide enough for a fat arm to dart out and grab him by the shoulder, yanking him in. Instinctively he slammed his elbow into the side of his assailant's head, and used the moments it bought him to draw his wand. "Oh, it's you, Professor."

Slughorn doubled over, clutching the side of his quickly bruising, fleshy face. "Yes, dear boy, it's only me." Slughorn touched his nose gingerly. "Am I bleeding?"

Riddle winced, taking in the faint line of blood that trickled from the corner of Slughorn's mouth. "Perhaps a bit. Here, allow me." Under his breath, he murmured "episkey" and Slughorn's face was restored. "Now, care to tell me why you dragged me in here?"

Slughorn didn't answer at once, instead finding a mirror and examining his face. When he was sufficiently convinced that he was no more puffy than he was to begin with, he beamed at Riddle, saying, "Tom, you have really made great strides since Hogwarts, and I do not say that lightly."

"Thank you, Professor," Riddle said, annoyed. "Why'd you drag me in here?"

Slughorn looked past Riddle to the door, which stood ajar. Hastily he closed it. "Tom, you and Minerva are together, right?"

Riddle would have rather not answered, but with great reluctance he replied in the affirmative, that yes, he and Minerva were very much together. Slughorn expressed an inordinate amount of glee at this newest revelation.

"Then may I make a suggestion for the upcoming Valentine's Day?" Slughorn asked eagerly, a sly smile on his face and his eyebrows performing acrobatics again.

"Absolutely no-" Riddle fell silent as Slughorn wordlessly produced a piece of parchment, with several lines of closely spaced text. "Ah. Professor, you're a genius."

"Thank you, my boy. I do try."

Riddle was intrigued by Slughorn's idea, but being Lord Voldemort, he had devious plans to twist things even more strongly in his favor. But this spot of help from his favorite professor just helped things along. Who was he to pass up an opportunity like this? "Never did I think I would find myself waiting eagerly... for Valentine's Day," Riddle murmured, fingers tightening on the parchment and a diabolical grin spreading over his handsome features. Slughorn's smile faded a bit.

"Tom, you aren't going to-"

"No need to worry, Professor. No need to worry at all."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Oho, but there's SO much need to worry... Cliffy :) Hope you enjoyed this, y'all. I've had very little time to write so this was dreamed up and written during the Grammy Awards. That might be why there are mistakes; I'm putting this up fresh and unedited. Don't forget to review! It will assuage my guilt for leaving you for two weeks. Thanks again everyone! Your lovely feedback makes me want to keep on writing even when I'm in a time crunch. 3**


	22. A Valentine's Day Cliche

A/N: Heeeey all. In a perfect world this would have been up on Valentine's Day. But, I had stuff to do. Like, school stuff. So that's why I'm late. :P Anyway, I wrote this in one sitting and I'm too lazy to edit, so I'll cut straight to the "thank yous." Thank you to Sachita and Sarah and of course Aquitane! Day made, as always. Happy reading!

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><p>Hagrid closed the leather-bound volume he had been reading aloud from. "All righ', all righ'. Story time'll have to be over, for now." The knocking at the door became more persistent. "I'm comin', don' break the door down!" He opened it, glancing apologetically at the numerous magical rabbits, barn owls, nifflers, and even the odd thestral, nestled together in the cabin's warm interior. "Oh! Another one!" Hagrid fairly beamed. "Well, come in, come in!"<p>

Lowther stepped over the threshold, and a broad smile gave his beak a twisted appearance as he saw nearly half his minions, right on the grounds of Hogwarts. Hagrid tried to pet him. He pecked, viciously. Hagrid resumed reading 'Babbity Rabbity and the Cackling Stump.' Everything was going according to plan. Perhaps later he'd pay Riddle a visit.

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><p><em>Poshuns Tiem<em>

"Slughorn is obviously not teaching today," Riddle said, surveying the seventh years before him. "I will be your substitute. Do not presume that means you get a day off; I expect the same obedience and decorum I expect in one of my classes. Now, can anyone tell me what this is?" Riddle asked, gesturing to the smaller caldron that stood on his desk. Steam rose up in spirals, and even in the dim lighting of the dungeon, the potion had an unmistakably pearly sheen.

"Is it a love potion?" Abraxas asked.

"Correct," Riddle said, adding, "five points to Slytherin. Do you know the name of it?"

"Nope."

Riddle was puzzled. "Then why did you..."

Abraxas leaned back in his seat, arms crossed behind his head. "Because, Professor, it's Valentine's Day. And Slughorn wrote today's lesson plan. And he totally would plan something like learning about love potions today, of all days."

Riddle frowned. "Well then, since the lot of you prove to be a bigger bunch of imbeciles than I had anticipated, I'll tell you what it is. Does the name 'amortentia' ring a bell?" He was met with glassy stares. "No? Pity. It is the most powerful love potion in the world. Of course, it would seem to be impossible to create love where none exists, but it can create a very powerful obsession... it smells differently to everyone, the scent being what one finds most attractive."

"What do you smell?" a Gryffindor girl asked curiously.

"That's not important," Riddle said dismissively, even as the scent of his own cologne became stronger as he inhaled some of the heady fumes, curiously mixed with citrus. "Now, Slughorn wants me to test your brewing capabilities by assigning you a love potion quite similar to amortentia, though significantly less potent." Instructions appeared on the board. "Turn to page three hundred ninety-four. There are a couple of ingredients that are in his private stores, so begin while I go-" There was a loud rap at the door, and Riddle stopped speaking, feeling vaguely annoyed. "Come in," he called sharply, adding under his breath, "not as if there's a class going on, or anything..."

The door swung open to admit Minerva. "Afternoon. Just thought I'd stop by on my free period and say 'hello.'" She kicked the door shut and before he knew it her arm was through his. "Hello." Riddle scowled, his expression darkening even more when she whispered, "Sound familiar, darling?"

"Just how many free periods do you have?" Riddle asked evenly, resisting the urge to fling her off. "Dumbledore seems to have made your schedule significantly lighter than my own.."

"I suppose it's a perk of being the newest on staff," she said sweetly. "What's going on?"

"As you can see, I'm filling in for Slughorn," Riddle replied, "and I was just about to get the ingredients they need for-"

"Ah. Well then-" and she practically pulled him into the supply closet. "Well, isn't this cozy," she said coquettishly.

"I have a class right now, you know," he pointed out. "Planning on letting me out anytime soon?"

Minerva ignored his question, asking one of her own again. "Mind if I stay for your class?"

He smiled at her, though it didn't reach his eyes. "How much would _you_ mind if I gave you an emphatic yes, I would very much mind?" He was surprised when she reached out and cupped his cheek.

"Too bad," she said, voice low. "I'm staying with you and there's nothing you can do about it."

Riddle laughed softly. "If you're trying to remind me that it's Valentine's Day, believe me, I'm very much aware, and I very much made plans." He tilted her face up. "Though I certainly didn't think you to be the type that cares inordinately about such things."

"Don't make too many assumptions about me, Tom," Minerva said softly. "I think you'll find I'm full of surprises.. and are you honestly telling me that you have a problem with me wanting to spend a little extra time with you?"

"Is that a false accusation?" Riddle asked, pulling her up for a quick kiss before snatching the necessary ingredients and leaving the supply closet, Minerva following a moment afterward.

"They're probably getting it on in the supply closet," a lanky Gryffindor boy was saying, his feet up on the desk and his front chair legs off the ground. "You heard it from me." Riddle said nothing, standing in front of his desk, leaning his weight against it slightly, his arms folded, waiting for the class to quiet down and stop tossing around their wild conjectures. He arranged his features into a deeply displeased and condescending grimace, and at last members of the class began to realize his presence.

"No," a girl was saying, "they wouldn't do that during a class.. more likely he forgot to send her flowers or something, and he's in trouble for it, or..." Her voice trailed off as a friend tapped her arm, jerking her head towards the front of the class where Riddle stood silently. "Oh..." The girl blushed furiously. "I- sorry, Professor... I'll be quiet now..."

"Oh no, don't stop on my account," Riddle said in a voice of deadly calm. "Go ahead, let's hear a few more theories." The girl remained silent, sinking in her seat. "No? Pity. You may all begin." He turned and sat at his desk. "Oh, and I think I'll take five points from everyone who spoke out of turn."

It was Minerva's first time observing Tom teaching a class, and she resolved to take note of anything out of the ordinary. However, he seemed to be adhering to the syllabus fairly closely, and consequentially she found being a passive bystander in a classroom to be extremely boring. She more than once considered leaving her seat at the back and circling the room to see how the students fared in their quest for a perfect love potion, but instead decided her time would be better spent trying to see what Tom was up to at the front. As she neared his desk, she noticed him snap the book he was reading shut, and pulled a few papers towards him instead. "So, care to give me a hint about what you have planned?" she asked. "Or is it a surprise?"

Riddle looked up, the familiar citrus scent lingering in the air again. "I'd rather not." He returned to the papers. "Trying to get a peek at what I'm reading, I see."

"I most certainly was not," Minerva protested, annoyed that he'd seen through her ruse so easily. "And you hardly have room to talk. I'm almost certain you've gone through my things during one of your stays over."

"Ah, but you don't really have any proof of that," he retorted, laying down his quill and looking up at her. "And you are a terrible liar, I really don't know why you persist with it."

"Fine then," she said shortly. "Don't show me. It's pretty obvious that you're terrified I'll go running off to tell Dumbledore, as if I don't have anything better to do."

"Do you?"

Minerva was a bit taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"_Do_ you have anything better to do?"

"Certainly," she exclaimed, laying her arm along his shoulders. "I'm here with you in my period off, aren't I?"

"Good answer," Riddle said, not convinced. "As for the reading, we'll go over some of the things I brought you later tonight." He glanced at the clock. "They'd better start wrapping up."

"Aren't you going to remind them?" she asked, surprised when he made no move to alert the students.

"No."

Minerva crossed her arms, perplexed. His teaching methods were unorthodox, she'd grant, but she'd have to see more before she decided whether or not the subject matter he was teaching was unacceptable for the students. There was always the off chance that the class she'd walked in on had been a fluke, but she'd have to watch a few more lectures before she was sure. "Well, I suppose you know best."

"Again, good try, ma minette, but flattery will get you nowhere with me."

She pushed him. "You are impossible."

"You are distracting me." He looked up at her again. "No, really, you're distracting me. I can't think straight when you're around."

The less sensible part of Minerva got a bit light-headed and fluttery at this, but the part of her which was more well known promptly strangled the fluttery romantic. "Very kind of you, Tom, I do appreciate it. But flattery doesn't work with me either."

Riddle grinned, genuinely this time. "Most astute. But I assure you, I meant it." And he patiently watched the clock without saying anything more, standing once the bell rang and collecting vials of the students' potions. "You are dismissed," he said. "Fortunately for you, I will not be grading these, but believe me, I can tell at a glance which ones will not be receiving desirable grades." The students left the room in a hurry, and he put the room in order as slowly as possible.

"So," Minerva began in a conversational tone. "Alone at last."

"Yes, but only for ten minutes, I have a class to teach after this," Riddle pointed out. "Whatever you're going to say, say it quickly."

"You do not. You have a scheme you want to carry out, and you don't want me to be a witness to it." She spoke with authority, hands on her hips. "And I fail to see why-"

Riddle cut her off mid-sentence with a kiss. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"What?" she spluttered. "No, I'm not finished yet! You can't just-"

He interrupted her again, locking the door with a flick of his wand and backing her into the desk this time. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to grasp what you're saying."

"Tom," she said, straightening and taking his face in both her hands, "I just want to-"

"_That's_ what it was!" Riddle said, his face lighting up as he snapped his fingers. "I had _thought_ it smelled familiar!"

"What in the world are you talking about?" Minerva sighed, resigned to the fact that she'd never get a word in edgewise.

"Amortentia smells differently to each person, so the scent is what you find most attractive," Riddle explained. "I smelled citrus today, which doesn't usually happen."

Minerva frowned, not understanding. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Your perfume," Riddle said, holding her forearm to her nose. "You wear some citrus-y blend, don't you?"

"Yes, I- oh." Minerva blushed, turning her face from him. "Oh, I see what you're driving at."

"It was familiar," Riddle repeated, "but not usually what I smell…"

Minerva stood over the cauldron and inhaled. "Oh. Interesting."

Riddle stood next to her. "What?"

"Well, there's the usual, like hyacinth, and fresh parchment, and catnip, and-"

"Catnip?"

"-yes, catnip, and peppermint, and-"

"What sort of a laundry list of scents do you have?" Riddle interrupted again.

She turned to him. "Shut up," she said calmly, turning back to the cauldron. "And of course I smell your cologne, but there's something new. It smells like wet bird, but that can't possibly be right.."

"Maybe it's geared towards your feline sensibilities?" Riddle suggested. "I mean, wet birds don't fly very well, do they, since it weighs down their feathers and all…" He stopped. "Wait, no, it's not the potion, I smell it too."

Minerva froze, grabbing his arm. "Oh no. You don't think.."

Riddle straightened, drawing his wand. "Gordon Lowther, show yourself."

The toucan materialized above them, hovering in place. "Hello, _Professor_." Riddle did not miss the condescension in the bird's voice.

Minerva, however, had never before had the delight of conversing with the bird. "It- it _talks_!"

"Yes, of course he talks," Riddle snarled, training his wand on the bird. "I thought I'd seen the last of you, Lowther. Want to help me with another lesson already?"

"I'm just here to draw your attention to something," the bird said with amusement. "You both know Hagrid, don't you?"

"What about him?" Minerva asked.

"You should pay him a visit sometime," the bird leered. "I'm sure it will be well worth it."

"How are things with Dumbledore's pet?" Riddle demanded. "He's realized you're a poorly behaved, deranged, slovenly toucan, and you're sleeping outside now?"

Lowther's beak twisted into a scowl. "Fawkes could have been my ally. He was a fool to refuse me… and Dumbledore still recognizes my worth. He will pay, in good time."

"Wait a minute," Minerva cut in. "So I realize you're a magical toucan, but why exactly would you need allies? What cause could you possibly promote? Recognition as a magical toucan?"

"That's _exactly_ what he wants, Minerva!" Riddle burst out, grabbing her shoulders wildly and spinning her around to face him. "He's part of a ridiculous-"

"Tom."

"-organization solely bent on-"

"Tom!"

"-overthrowing Wizarding rule and he's starting with-"

"TOM!" Minerva shouted, grabbing his face and turning it towards the window. "He's gone."

"Damn him," Riddle muttered darkly. "I'll get to the bottom of this… I thought I'd settled with him effectively, but apparently I was wrong. How am I supposed to carry on with my work with that feathered abomination insisting on being a hindrance…"

"Darling," Minerva said, putting herself between Riddle and the window, "he's just a bird."

"There's a great deal I can tell you about him, Minerva," Riddle said, "but I'll save that for dinner tonight. Tell me, how many of Hogwarts' secrets would you say you're familiar with?"

"Only a fraction," she said modestly.

"How would you like to uncover another?"

"That depends on the company," she said softly, closing her eyes as he closed the gap between them for the fourth time that afternoon.

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><p>"Won't it be obvious, if we're both missing from dinner?" she pointed out as she and Riddle hurried along the seventh floor corridor.<p>

"You worry too much about the most trivial of things," Riddle pointed out. "Now, we walk past this spot four times.." After they passed for the fourth time, Riddle stopped, and opened the door. "Now tell me you'd rather I ruined the surprise."

Minerva followed him in, eyes widening as she took in the sight of the Room of Requirement, decorated tastefully with candles, roses, and red hyacinths. The room had adopted ivory walls with cherry wood trimmings, giving it a decidedly luxurious and homey quality the majority of the castle lacked. Candles floated in gradient arcs, each rimmed with miniature wreaths of roses. Bouquets of hyacinths rested on wall sconces, with a centerpiece of the flowers on a table, covered in a starched linen tablecloth. The floor was covered with a thick rug, and Minerva slipped out of her shoes and enjoyed the soft, tickling sensation of the fibers against the soles of her bare feet. She heard music, and turned to see an enchanted string quartet, playing by itself in a corner. A baby grand piano stood in another corner of the room, the seat sprinkled with rose petals. A chaise lounge was the last of the furniture in the room, upholstered in velvet. "How did you…" Minerva began, and found herself unable to finish.

"Why do you always answer my questions with one of your own?" Riddle asked easily, wrapping an arm around her small waist. "Why don't you read the note?"

"The note?" Minerva echoed, and she saw the little parchment scroll at one of the places on the table. Hurriedly she unrolled it. "I hate clichés, and I know you do too. Let's enact one together, because it makes complete sense," she read aloud. "Okay, at the risk of sounding like a typical, overtly romantic woman, I absolutely love what you've done here, but-"

"I stopped listening after 'I absolutely love what you've done here,'" Riddle said. "Anyway, there's more than enough to do here, even if we get tired of an evening of conversation, and bickering, I'm sure." He gestured to the piano. "It's a Steinway, I believe." He shrugged. "I know you play organ, but shattering the windows just doesn't appeal to me."

"Stop downplaying everything," Minerva insisted. "You have to tell me how this room works."

"All in good time," Riddle said, uncorking a bottle of wine. "Tell me, how does this measure up to your expectations?"

"I'm not the sort of woman who expects her boyfriend to go to extremes for a commercialized holiday," Minerva said, smiling. "All that aside, though, I can't express to you how perfect this all is." She laughed. "I never saw you as a romantic, Tom."

"Believe me, I'm not," Riddle said. "But it's enough for me if you like it."

Dinner consisted of frisee salad with a lemon vinaigrette, filet mignon with red wine sauce, and cappuccino souffle, a menu Minerva found more to her taste than she'd ever admit. "Out of curiosity," Minerva said, looking at Riddle beneath arched brows, "since you aren't the romantic sort, did you find it ironic that Slughorn had you instruct the class on how to brew love potions?"

"Not particularly," Riddle answered. "One could say that my ability with love potions is genetic, though." He gestured vaguely. "After all, I never messed one up in my life."

"Genetic how?" Minerva asked.

Riddle tried to appear pensive. "My mother," he began, "was a witch, as I later found out through some research. She won my father over with a love potion." He paused. "I think she grew tired of having to bewitch her husband, but naturally, without her magic he had no inclination to stay with her, pregnant or no." He drummed his fingers on the table. "I believe I've told you the rest."

Minerva's eyes softened. "Oh, Tom," she murmured, reaching across and taking his hand. "Ordinarily I would say 'I'm sorry' or something, but of course the last thing you want is my pity..."

Riddle laughed. "You know me too well." He frowned, suddenly. "Wait. We haven't started bickering yet. Something is very wrong with this."

"You're too much," Minerva sighed, but she was smiling as she said it. "Tell me about something you've planned, and I'm almost certain to get annoyed with you."

"Very well," Riddle said. "I've been dying to share this anyway. Some hormonally charged teenagers who had the audacity to make inappropriate comments about us -and really, some of them were quite lewd- are about to go about the very activities they spoke of, with little to no subtlety, which will almost certainly land them in detention."

"Oh, Tom, you didn't." Minerva leaned towards him, voice earnest. "That's against so many regulations.. you may never, ever perform magic on students!"

Riddle laughed. "I didn't do anything. In honor of Valentine's Day, Slughorn was planning on having the seventh years brew the next closest thing to amortentia. He couldn't make it to class, so I filled in for him." Smiling innocently, he offered her a tray. "Canapé?"

Rolling her eyes, she took one. "And was spiking the afternoon pumpkin juice with the potion really necessary?"

"You have no way of knowing whether or not I did that." He sagely sipped his wine. "I did, however, leave a little surprise in the flagons of the students whose potions were... substandard." He paused, thinking. "Incidentally, that's most of the smartasses in the class. How convenient."

"Which is what, an A instead of an O?"

"I'm not that heartless. Anything less than an A, as a matter of fact."

Minerva twirled her fork. "Dare I ask what the surprise was?"

"A few drops of potion, of course." He poured them each a glass of wine. "You already guessed that, ma minette." He stood, offering her his hand. "Dance with me?"

Minerva stood, taking his hand. "In a moment." She transfigured her dress into one resembling her deep purple, Elizabeth Taylor-esque gown. "I thought you'd never ask."

The strings quartet began to play Chopin's Waltz in A Minor, and more than once Riddle found himself picturing the scene as it would appear to a bystander, usually Slughorn. That alone was enough to make his lip curl and make him want to let go of Minerva, but he restrained himself and instead observed Minerva's face as they waltzed. She seemed comfortable with gazing at him, even though they talked very little during the entirety of their dance. "What?" he asked, feeling a bit odd after the prolonged silence.

"Nothing," she said, letting go. "Let's try out the Steinway." It didn't take her long to become used to the longer keyboard, and she began to play 'Unchained Melody,' feeling childishly delighted when the quartet accompanied her flawlessly. It had been a long while since she had played an instrument, but despite her rustiness Riddle stood by the piano, attentive as ever, observing her face as she expressively played through the song. As she reached the chorus, she glanced up, and their eyes locked. Minerva was vaguely conscious of her fingers slowing on the keys, of the drag on the pedal by her leaden foot, and of how close she and Riddle were. Her fingers stopped, and she released the pedal with a dull clunk, pushing back the chair as she stood to kiss him more fully. "Now it's officially a cliché," she whispered against his lips, eyes closed, as they fumbled to the chaise lounge, Minerva arching into him when she felt her back collide with the cushions. In the disengaged corner of her mind, she thought she heard something outside, but as she turned her full attention to Riddle once more, she felt him pull away abruptly.

"It's time," he said excitedly. "Hurry, Minerva, hurry-" and he leapt to the door in an instant, incandescent with fiendish joy.

"What?" Minerva demanded, annoyed, and feeling slightly brushed aside. "You completely killed the moment there."

"Oh, this will make it up!" Riddle exclaimed, unable to wait for her to rise from her seat, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her to the door. "Now," he said, setting her down, "let's see what havoc the Dark Lord himself hath wrought."

"Bit of a pretentious title there, don't you think?" Minerva teased, and opened the door, Riddle close behind, wondering how he could have let that slip so early.

The first couple was literally just outside the Room of Requirement, and detaining them was laughably easy, Riddle found. The fact that the two abhorred one another made administering the antidote a sort of joy unto itself, as their expressions turned to ones of abject horror as they realized what they had been doing for the past several minutes. Sufficiently mortified, they were sentenced to detention, and later bed, though "_not_ with each other," as Riddle warned. Hypocrisy, he decided, had never been quite so much fun. Minerva was at first a bit of a killjoy, not amused at all by the childish revenge he had chosen to exact on his students, but as their mission progressed, and as the hiding places grew all the more ridiculous, she couldn't help but enjoy herself. Immediately afterward they retired to her room, where they had what she considered the most enlightening conversation on theoretical transfiguration in a long while.

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><p>It had been a glorious evening, Riddle later reflected, alone in his room for the night, after catching every single twat who had dared speak of him so flippantly. It was a sad day that such petty revenge delighted him to this extent, he thought, but the fact remained that his day had been… well, awesome, for lack of a better word. The expressions on the students' faces was almost as glee-inducing as Dumbledore's, when he beheld Riddle and Minerva en route to her chamber together, Minerva's hair unraveling from her customary knot. But he couldn't shake Lowther's words from his mind. "Pay Hagrid a visit," he murmured under his breath. "I'll have to get on that," and outside his window, the toucan smiled evilly.<p>

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><p><strong>AN: Heeey y'all. Hope you enjoyed it. I totally want a Steinway, and even though I am not worthy of touching one, I let Minerva because she is more awesome than me. Hope y'all enjoyed your dose of Lowther, I was starting to miss him! Don't forget to leave me a review… they're like cookies, except with no calories and all of the joy :)**


	23. Is that a proposition crappy title

A/N: Hey guys. Sorry for my prolonged absence. But hey, I was busy, and...yeah. I'm going through a hellish two weeks right here, and writing had to take a backseat. Also, there were a couple of days when I woke up and just didn't want to. So as a result it's been nearly three weeks without an update from me. My apologies. Anyway, thank yous are in order for the wonderful **Sachita** (per usual!), **SherbetKitty** (glad you're back:), **Aquitane**, **soupofthedaysara** (for commenting on nearly everything!), **Sarah Kassiopeia**, **Tayler Snape**, **Amortentia**, and **Tamarichan**. You will never know how delighted I become when I see I have another review. :') ANYWAY enough rambling on my part. I'm sure you're curious to see what happens next...

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><p>"Afternoon, Hagrid."<p>

Rubeus Hagrid straightened up. "Why, 'ello... ah, it's _you_, Tom." He swallowed audibly. "What're yeh doin' 'ere?"

"What can you tell me about a toucan?" Riddle said carefully. He studied the half-giant's face, observing the blood drain from it and his fists tighten on the hedge clippers he held.

"Er... I don't know what yer talkin' about..."

Riddle brushed past him, walking straight towards the Hagrid's cabin. "Mind if I invite myself in?"

"No! Wait! Yeh can't go in there!" Hagrid began to run after him.

"Immobulus," Riddle said, pointing his wand back at Hagrid and freezing him in place without looking back. "It's for your own good, Hagrid. How quickly you've forgotten third year." Hagrid's face fell, his expression stricken.

"Now Tom, yeh don't want to do that..."

His feeble protestations were to no avail. Riddle rapped on the door sharply, drawing his wand and blasting the door inwards when -as is often the case when the owner of the house is outside- nothing happened. As his eyes adjusted to the comparatively dim house after the sunny outdoors, he began to register that Hagrid's cabin was quite cluttered, as if with an overabundance of furniture. "How odd," he said aloud, but as he became used to the lighting it became apparent that it wasn't furniture that crowded Hagrid's home. The dusty, earthy scent of live animals permeated the air in Hagrid's cabin, and Riddle felt momentarily alarmed as he realized the sheer numbers of creatures Hagrid was housing. "But no bloody toucan in sight," he murmured. "How typical. How devious." As he stood there, taking in the sight of the magical animals staring back at him, Hagrid, the spell ended at last, hurried over.

"Now Tom, please don't go and tell Professor Dumbledore," he begged. "He said I could keep 'im."

"'Him' implies only one animal," Riddle said, long fingers playing with his wand. "There must be nearly fifty in here, and I'd warrant you have more. What are they doing here?"

"Aw, they're jus' little critters without a place to go," Hagrid said in earnest. "An' they're real gentle, look-" and he tried to scoop up the first vampire bunny, chuckling when it tried to viciously bite him. "See, 'e don't mean it."

Riddle weighed his options. If he turned Hagrid in again, something told him Dumbledore would deliberately overlook Hagrid's offense, and prompt further investigation into Tom's own affairs. If he did nothing, he risked exposing the school to a massive magical animal invasion. If he turned Hagrid in, he put himself at the mercy of Dumbledore. If he did nothing, Dumbledore would look bad for failing to manage a simple magical creature invasion simply due to the element of surprise. It was settled. He would do nothing; it was enough that he knew. And he could take steps to ensure that Lowther's minions could do no real damage to himself by keeping close tabs on them -and the toucan. "I won't say anything to Dumbledore," Riddle said, looking at Hagrid directly and trying to convey the truth of the statement with his eyes. "I don't know how much stock you'll put in my word, but it's all you have at this point."

Hagrid dropped the bunny, relieved, and clapped Riddle on the shoulder, making him stumble. "Oh, thank yeh, Tom. I mean it, too."

Riddle forced a smile. "Of course."

"Say, 'ow did yeh know about that toucan?" Hagrid asked curiously.

"Is he a regular here?" Riddle said eagerly.

"No, 'e stopped by once," Hagrid said. "He's a bit strange, that one. Goes aroun' an' acts like 'e talks to the others... an' then 'e flies off, without waitin' for anythin'... 'cept grapes," he added thoughtfully. "An' sometimes, they all go off together, and I can hear 'em talkin'... about some kind o' magic zapper." He chuckled. "They think they're like wizards, it's so cute."

"I see," Riddle said, unperturbed. "Afternoon, Hagrid." Without another word he turned and walked back across the sunlit grounds to the castle, with much to ponder, ignoring Hagrid's calls of farewell and tentative reminders to not mention a bit of it to Dumbledore.

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><p><em>Minerva's Room<em>

Minerva was not fond of pacing, not even when situations were most dire and a good bit of pacing worked wonders. She was not fond of pacing when the issue was something as trivial as far too much grading to do, an overabundance of shit to get done, and relatively minor complications in her love life. Was it her love life? She couldn't yet say. She was seriously beginning to question whether or not the whole double agent thing was more trouble than it was worth. Dumbledore had only seen her with Tom in either a strictly friendly sense -with the exception of the New Year's party- or in a professional sense. He was aware of the nature of their relationship more or less, but he didn't appear unduly bothered by it, perhaps because for the most part, Tom behaved himself around the man. And yet, being fully aware of this, he still expected her to spy on Tom. It was a bit insulting. Wasn't it obvious that things at the moment were complicated enough for her?

"But," she said aloud, "I'm hardly being fair." She still had to take into account her own investigations regarding Tom. Reporting to Dumbledore was one thing; she felt as though it would be unjustifiable by this point to continue with that operation. At the same time, the organization the Death Munchers was clearly not wholly innocent, and she was curious -and suspicious- as to why he had revealed so much so early. If she knew anything about Tom for certain, she knew that he wasn't stupid, and therefore did everything for a reason. A horrible suspicion rose to the forefront of her mind: what if she was another part of his plans? She didn't think him the sort to simply pursue her for a cheap sexual conquest, but she wouldn't put it past him to have an ulterior motive for getting into her good books. And as she well knew, she was already very much in danger of becoming even more fond of him.

She turned on her heel, beginning what felt like her thousandth lap around the woven rug in front of her bed, pushing away her muddled feelings towards Tom and instead thinking of the talking toucan. More than anything else, Lowther seemed like a prank somebody decided to play on the school. If that was the case, it was in very bad taste. The fact that Lowther was apparently serious, and "a feathered abomination that must be destroyed," as Tom put it, made the whole thing all the more ludicrous. And even if Lowther was a threat, it didn't explain Tom's bouts of psychotic rage whenever the toucan made an appearance. The two times she was privy to their interaction, Tom had exploded with anger, carrying on much like a five year old child who hadn't gotten his way. It was amazing for one so bright to be so subject to bouts of childish temper, indicative of low emotional maturity. Clearly, she was attracted to him for his looks and his intelligence. Either that, or she had terrible taste in men. She was afraid it was the latter; she found his arrogant, careless manner far more attractive than was reasonable. Hmmm, which did she find more justifiable, immaturity or douchebaggery?

Sighing, she glanced at her watch. One of Tom's classes would be beginning shortly, and internal conflict aside, she'd be damned if she passed up a chance to observe him teaching a group of fifth years. Snatching up a role of parchment and the quill he had given her for Christmas, she set off for the defense against the dark arts classroom.

* * *

><p><em>DADA class<em>

"I thought we could do something a bit different today," Riddle said slowly, once the students seated themselves. "Perhaps more of an open forum class discussion." He gave no indication that he saw Minerva in the back of the class. "Let's discuss magical ethics."

The fifth year Hufflepuffs and Slytherins shifted in their seats, exchanging looks with one another as they tried to gage what Riddle meant. "Sir," a curly haired girl said hesitantly, "what-"

"-are magical ethics?" Riddle said. "Good question." He looked around the room at the students. "Any takers?"

"Determining whether or not the use of certain spells or enchantments are morally justifiable," a dark haired Slytherin boy said, hand in the air. "There's magic that's not socially acceptable and then there's just magic."

"Correct," Riddle said. "What exactly constitutes socially acceptable magic, though?"

A mousy looking girl raised her hand. "Isn't dark magic amoral? That's we learn defense against the dark arts, not the dark arts themselves, right?"

"Potentially," Riddle agreed, "but not necessarily. You see, I think that part of the reason dark magic is perceived as evil is because the word 'dark' carries such a negative connotation. Look at popular culture, which equates 'dark' with 'bad.'"

"But darkness is-" the girl began.

"Darkness," Riddle said, "is what lies in the soil, below the earth, before a plant grows in the spring. It is the long nights of winter, when we are drawn into our homes to embrace our families and count our good fortune." Minerva noticed a bit of ironic drawl slip into his voice. "Once we accept the idea that dark is isn't all bad, isn't it easier to examine the concept of light and dark magic?"

"Yeah," a boy pointed out, "you could replace 'light' and 'dark' with 'negative' and 'positive.'"

"That's a start," Riddle said, "but there's still a problem. Would you agree that intent matters as much as action? In other words, if someone performs magic that others might see as 'negative,' but does it for what they believe is a justified reason, then is it really negative magic?" The students looked thoughtful. Riddle was pleased; he hadn't expected it to be so easy.

"But then," a girl said, frowning, "you're saying everything is grey area. There's not right and wrong, only the perception of it."

"No," Riddle corrected. "To do magic is to say that you want to bring about change through the manipulation of energy that defies laws of physics. Any magic capable of causing change is also magic that can harm, simply by its very nature. I could use the Imperious curse, for example, to stop someone from harming someone I care about-" he met Minerva's eyes across the room- "or I could use it for amoral reasons. It's not the spell that is negative, but what I choose to do with it." The class appeared more receptive to the idea now. "Tell me. Could you use one of the unforgivable curses, if you had to?"

The general response was hesitancy, but a few students felt that they could, if loved ones were in danger or if the other person deserved it for what they had done. "After all," one of the girls said, "it isn't orthodox to lock lawbreakers up with dementors, but we do that in Azkaban."

"A good point," Riddle said as the bell rang. "For your homework, I want you to read chapter thirty-five and be ready for a quiz tomorrow. You are dismissed." He observed Minerva stand and wait for the students to leave before maneuvering her way to the front of the room around all the desks and chairs.

"Hello you," she said lightly, offering a cheek for him to kiss once the students had left.

"Hello yourself," he returned, turning her face and kissing her lips instead. "Monitoring my class again, are you?"

"Obviously," she said, deciding honesty would be far more effective in this situation. "You don't mind, do you?"

"So long as _you_ don't mind being bored by lectures I suspect you were qualified to give in your sixth year," Riddle said. "Since you're here, would you mind terribly if I asked you to help me with these essays?"

"And if I say 'yes, I would very much mind'?" she asked, her tone teasing.

"No originality, I see."

"Oh, stop." She picked up one of the papers and skimmed it quickly. "You can't handle having your own snark used against you. As if I would _mind_. Honestly." She pulled out the quill and started circling the incorrect material.

"Want to start some of our reading?" Riddle asked, coming to stand behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Mmmm, not particularly," she murmured, leaning against him. "I'd rather we discuss why you're encouraging fifth years to use dark magic."

Riddle found her sleepy tone and the pointed significance of her words to be a devilishly clever and surprising juxtaposition. "I wouldn't say 'dark magic.' You missed the point of the lecture, but all right. You go first."

"Fine." Without bothering to turn around, she began to tick off all the problems she had found in his lecture. "First of all, they're at a very impressionable age. Fifteen-year-olds are more likely to use an illegal spell just to experiment or because they get worked up about something silly their classmates did. Don't you remember what it was like to be their age? Scientifically, they're ruled by emotions when in turbulent situations and don't rely exclusively on logic like adults."

"You're being patronizing," he said through a clenched jaw, peering over her shoulder to see what she was examining. "And they aren't using the spells, just discussing them, so that's an irrelevant point. Are you taking notes on my classes?" he asked, incredulous. "Really, Minerva? This is pathetic, even for you."

Those last words in the phrase touched a nerve. She seized his wrists and pulled his hands away from her body. "What do you mean, 'even for you'?"

Riddle blinked. _Shit._ "Nothing for you to get so offended about, ma minette. I just meant-"

"So you find me 'pathetic.'" She shook her head. "First slutty, now pathetic. Do you _enjoy_ putting your foot in your mouth?"

"Obviously not, and I don't enjoy upsetting you either," Riddle said, perplexed by her temper. "What's wrong?" He noticed the corner of her mouth tremble. "What's wrong?" he persisted, forcing himself to be gentle this time, pulling her close to him. "You're acting bipolar. Is it that time of month?" he tried again, feeling quite out of his element making little quips to comfort her.

"I'm just tired." She rested her cheek against his shoulder.

"Of?"

"I don't know, I'm overworked. I'm tired of grading substandard essays, I'm tired of remedial classes, I'm tired of issuing detention, I'm tired of seeing Gryffindor lose to Slytherin time and time again-"

"I can't side with you on the last one," Riddle pointed out, hoping to elicit a smile from her. It worked.

"Fair enough. I'm tired of being suspicious of you, and I'm tired of us beating around the bush of the exact nature of our relationship. Let's face it. You are nowhere near telling me anything about the Death Munchers, yet you for some reason let me know about them. You know Dumbledore wants me to keep an eye on you, and we persist with the ridiculous game that I'm not. We know that I'm suspicious of what you're teaching the students -and granted, that may be because of Dumbledore. I don't know. But," Minerva said, taking his shoulders in her hands and meeting his gaze, "that does not mean that I do not enjoy your company, nor that I am not extremely fond of you."

"Quite finished?" Riddle said, smiling.

"Yes." Minerva heaved a sigh. "And if you make light of this, I will crucio you." She cracked a smile.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Riddle ran his hands through her hair. "You really are overworked, Minerva."

"No," she said, "I'll be fine."

"Why don't we go to the Room of Requirement and get some grading done?" Riddle suggested. "We could argue whether or not I was out of line for teaching fifth years about practical uses of dark magic." _So-called dark magic_, he added mentally.

"Oh, I'll be delighted to," Minerva said, eyes narrowing. "But I'm going to the staff room first; I feel as though I've been neglecting Pomona."

"Go ahead." Riddle had a sudden thought. "How would you like to go to London?"

"We are _not_ going to visit Cygnus again," Minerva said with finality. "Not on a school night."

"I thought you liked it. And besides, I meant just the two of us." Riddle paused. "For the long weekend."

"Ah."

"What do you say?"

"I say," Minerva whispered, bringing her lips close to his ear, "it's a bit soon for that." Seeing his obvious disappointment, she added, "but I'll go along with it, on one condition."

"Which is?"

"Ever heard of Karajan?"

"Of course." He cocked an eyebrow. "But if you want to see him live in concert at such short notice you'll have to set your morals aside and get in the illegal wizard way with me."

"I'm not a prude, Tom."

"Ah, but you never even toe the line."

"That's what you think. Do you remember when Dippet gave everyone the lecture about underage drinking, when the scotch went missing?"

Riddle stared. "That was...you?"

"I admit to nothing."

"You would have been fourteen!"

She smiled. "Precisely. And you think I have that much of an issue with rule-breaking? It's fine -and fun- so long as it's within reason."

"I never said you did, ma minette." He smirked. "I rather like the bad influence I have on you."

"Don't flatter yourself," Minerva retorted. "_You_ can't influence me."

"I take that as a challenge."

"Challenge accepted." Minerva reached up and kissed him. "I'll see you after dinner."

"I'll see you in hell."

Minerva turned back to him from the door. "Interesting farewell," she said, "though a bit cliche."

"Just like our relationship," Riddle said with finality. "Bye, Minerva."

Minerva's eye fell across a scrap of paper, which she hastily scooped up. "Bye, darling."

_Astronomy tower, 7 o'clock_

Minerva frowned once she was out of the classroom. "Interesting." Who was he meeting at the astronomy tower? Seven was dinner time..

* * *

><p>She found herself offering Dumbledore breathless apologies when she entered the Great Hall fifteen minutes late. She had waited at the astronomy tower since ten minutes to seven, and no one turned up at all. Perhaps the note was old, or for a later date. It may have been entirely innocent as well, but the fact that it was Riddle she was dealing with made suspicion natural. It wasn't important, though, she decided, seating herself between Riddle and Pomona. "Sorry I'm late," she whispered to him. "Did I miss anything important?"<p>

"Besides me? No."

Slughorn snorted into his pudding. Riddle smiled at Minerva sweetly. "Pumpkin juice?"

"Is it spiked with love potion?" she answered evenly, smiling as she proferred her goblet.

"The day I have to resort to love potions to make you attend to me is the day I hand out sweets in class," Riddle said, pouring out the juice. "Which will be never."

"So you weren't in the staff room before dinner," Minerva said, voice low. "Pomona and I had to go through our grading all alone."

"Ah, I'm sure you kept one another sufficiently entertained."

"Yes, it was lovely to have some 'girl time,' if you will, but I still would have enjoyed a good argument with my wonderful _amant_, and where was he when I needed him?" She glanced at him as she cut a bite of chicken, looking for all the world as though she were only making small talk.

"I was with a couple of students in extra help," Riddle explained. "Terribly sorry, ma minette. You understand that my job comes before anything else during the school day." He glanced at the Slytherin table, where sixth years Baxter and Reiling were seated. "If you want to argue with me, though, I'm all ears."

"Wonderful," Minerva said, appeased. "One of the arguments you made was that using dark magic is all about intention. You can use it if you're using it for good -or, as you put it, your perception of good."

"Correct," Riddle said, looking sadly at his goblet of pumpkin juice. "Would it be out of line to replace this with la fee verte?"

"Very, considering it's illegal in most parts of Europe, and you're in the presence of minors," Minerva said impatiently. "Back to my point. Aren't there plenty of other alternatives? If someone was torturing you, for example, I could stop your attacker with a simple stunning spell, rather than an Imperius curse."

"Good point, ma minette," Riddle said, a bit amused. "But if someone were attacking me, for malicious purposes, he likely would be using dark magic, wouldn't he? And if he were proficient in the dark arts, a simple stunning spell or any such 'light' enchantments would have little effect, wouldn't they? To combat something as versatile and potent as the dark arts, one needs to be proficient in the art itself."

Minerva paused, flummoxed. "Damn you."

Riddle smirked teasingly. "No answer, darling?" He returned to his dinner while Minerva racked her brains for a witty response.

"Got one," she said at last. "You said it's all about intention. But 'the road to Hell is paved with good intentions,' is it not? You would have killed that poor girl from your dream if she had been real simply because you couldn't stand her."

"Oh, let's not bring that irritating little bitch up," Riddle said, face darkening at the mere mention of the girl he would forever think of as The Author.

"But do you see my point?" Minerva persisted. "Your intentions would have been misplaced, and you would have used dark magic -you _did_ use dark magic, in the dream- with the intention of just getting peace and quiet. But you can't justify murder, Tom."

Riddle shrugged. "We already discussed when murder can be justifiable. If you kill someone or something inhuman, it isn't murder."

"Anything that has a human body is human, Tom!" Minerva snapped, raising her voice angrily. "What's the matter with you?" She didn't notice Pomona and Dumbledore look in her direction with open curiosity.

"Be a bit more discreet, ma minette," Riddle said quietly. "People are staring."

Minerva blushed. "Sorry," she said, voice low again, "but I just feel like you don't see what I'm saying, and that worries me."

"It worries you that we have a communication gap?" Riddle asked, wrapping his left arm around her waist, out of sight of the students. "We can fix that."

"No, I'm not so picky," she sighed. "It worries me that I've made no headway on your views on 'inhuman' beings."

"Maybe when we talk later tonight I can explain why my views are so firmly ingrained," Riddle said slowly. "And maybe we can enjoy some more of your beautiful piano expertise as well."

"I'd like that," Minerva said softly. "And I would love to stay with you in London for the weekend."

"Excellent," Riddle said. "I'll try and procure tickets to Karajan the proper way to appease you. Did you know Bernstein is actually a wizard? Why do you suppose he lives as a muggle?"

"I don't know," Minerva said. "Perhaps he finds it interesting. And magic makes being a musician easier as I would know."

As dinner ended, Minerva allowed Riddle to steer her towards the Room of Requirement, now a cozy den for an evening of reading. "So tell me why you feel some people are inhuman, and deserve to be exterminated."

"Because," Riddle said, his face darkening, "They were the sort I grew up around." He found it surprisingly easy to tell her of the time in the orphanage, of the hell he'd received from the older inmates before he developed control over his abilities, and the inherent hatred of witches and wizards all muggles harbored. "Here's a nice example," he said with an ugly sneer, pulling his shirt collar aside to reveal the beginnings of a knotted scar. "Not very human to bully someone who can talk to snakes, is it?"

"My god," Minerva whispered. "I don't blame you. But Tom, they aren't all like that. My father was a muggle, my mother is pureblood-"

"You're more like me than I thought, then," Riddle mused. "That was the case for me."

"Yes, but my father was wonderful," Minerva pointed out. "I wish you could have met him. Not all muggles are inhuman and terrified of someone different-"

"Most are though," Riddle snapped. "Look at history. Look at medieval England, look at the Puritans in America. Magical people were always persecuted. As the stronger race of people, one would think this wouldn't be an issue."

"Fine, fine," Minerva soothed, surprising Riddle by pulling his head against her chest and stroking his hair. "It's fine," she repeated, and when he caught a glimpse of her face he was surprised to see her eyes were moist. "I can't imagine growing up in that sort of environment," she said at last. "I don't blame you."

Riddle felt insulted. He felt like sitting bolt upright, and saying something along the lines of _I'm not an overemotional child, goddammit!_ But here was a sizable victory. Had he known Minerva was so susceptible to a good sob story, he would have implied this tactic ages ago. So he allowed her to hold him, and allowed her to feel protective and emotional on his behalf. The woman was bloody bipolar, he was sure of it now. She flip-flopped between ice queen and Don Juan's Aminta whenever it suited her. He rather preferred the latter, and was quite certain if he could pull off a Don Juan type conquest, minus the dramatic escape, of course, he'd have estranged her completely from Dumbledore and be that much closer to converting her to his cause. "I'm fine," he said at last. "Thank you."

She kissed him in reply, sweetly. "Let's go to bed."

"That's not a proposition, is it?"

"I, like you, want to stay professional," she said, but a mischievous glint entered her eye. "Not yet."

Riddle's eyebrows shot up. "I see."

"Come along, Tom. I believe you and I have some reading to do."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Cutting it off here, guys. Sorry about the three week absence... there're these things called life and school and they just keep getting in the way. Hope you enjoyed, leave your thoughts in the reviews! And for anyone unfamiliar with Karajan, he's a pianist/composer/conductor famous in the sixties, and he played with Bernstein at one point, I believe. Anyway, he was in concert at London in the fifties at one point, so yeah. Totally plausible. Hope you liked it, there will be more humor and fluff in the next chapter, promise. Review for me, please! :)**


	24. The Tower of London

HEY GUYS. I'm sorrrrryyyyyyyyyyy I haven't updated in forever, but... I'll explain in the end note. Hope you enjoy; I had to force this one out, but I'm pretty proud of it too!

* * *

><p>One of the things Riddle hadn't attended to as much since the entry of Minerva into his life -she took up a good chunk of his time- was the group of students, most of whom also were in his -or technically Minerva's- dueling club, who were interested not only in passing the practical aspect of his DADA class, but also in the mysterious Lord Voldemort, a name known to the old pureblooded families privileged enough to share in his dealings. Up to this point, he had presented himself to the students more as an agent who could assist them in their quests to eventually serve the rising Dark Lord, but he felt he would have to let them know who he really was sooner or later. The difficulty would lie in only telling the students unlikely to gossip and brag about the knowledge, which ruled out more than half. He would have to tread carefully there.<p>

Another issue that he had left unaddressed primarily because of its ridiculous nature was Mr. Lowther, the magical toucan. He had seen very little of him lately, something that indicated trouble. But he had seen more than enough of Lowther's forces, slowly increasing their numbers as they took up residence in Hagrid's cabin. He hadn't fed the basilisk lately either, and a mudblood here or there would not go unnoticed. A sudden thought occurred to him, and a cruel smile twisted his lips as he set off for the grounds before he met Minerva for their weekend in London.

0o0o0o0

"_Enjoying yourself?"_

_"Quite." _

_"Within the year, there will be more than enough human meat for you to gorge yourself on." _He stopped, feeling as though he ought to clarify. _"Muggle-born only, and maybe half-bloods if you're particularly hungry. I can't have you killing off my followers' offspring. It's bad for recruitment."_

The basilisk didn't bat an eye. Instead, it set about eating the thestral Riddle had brought. He was certain it was one of Lowther's lieutenants. _"So," _the snake said casually, _"trouble in paradise? It's been a while since we last talked about the transfiguration teacher."_

_"Hardly paradise."_

_"That so?"_ The snake paused to swallow the rest of the unfortunate thestral. "_What's going wrong?"_

_"Nothing, really," _Riddle admitted. "_I'm unsure as to where we stand. On the one hand, she's been very open with me about what she's expected to do, regarding Dumbledore's orders. On the other hand, she hasn't stopped, though she's doing an increasingly inadequate job for him." _

_"Are you achieving physical intimacy yet?" _

Riddle stared at the basilisk. It stared back. Ignoring the implausibility of his being alive after that, Riddle demanded, "_What are you, my therapist?"_

_"Even dark lords have relationship issues now and again."_

He was reluctant to answer. "_Not quite. I don't want to rush her... the timing has to be right, or she's going to think I'm an obsessive, lusty rapist." _

_"So I take it you won't be getting any this weekend."_

_"What the f*ck is wrong with you?"_ Riddle snapped. "_Of course not. Timing here is everything! After that, I'll know she trusts me. If I rush it, she won't, no matter what."_

There was an awkward pause. "_So it's a no."_

Riddle clapped a hand to his forehead. The echo filled the Chamber. _"You're a terrible therapist."_

_"I know,"_ the beast sighed, "_but I know one thing that may prove helpful. Fawkes. Hear me out," _it said when Riddle's expression turned sour, "_because it makes sense. If there's one thing I know from the snakes that live in Hogwarts' plumbing, it's that Dumbledore has made Fawkes spend time with Lowther, so he can make Lowther spy on you and get news from Fawkes. But Fawkes can't stand the bird, and knows something isn't right about the whole thing. Get to the phoenix, and Lowther is yours."_

_"But I don't like birds. Of _any_ variety."_ He was oblivious to how childish he sounded.

_"It's for the greater good, Mr. Heir of Slytherin,"_ the snake said matter-of-factly.

Standing, Riddle patted the Basilisk on its scaly head, and left the Chamber, hoping that he wouldn't run into anyone on the way out of the bathroom. It was pure bad luck, then, when he ran into Minerva after he left the bathroom and was in the hallway.

"Tom?"

"Evening, ma minette," he said casually.

"Why are your shoes dirty?" she asked slowly.

"I just paid Hagrid a visit."

"Why do the footprints only start from inside the bathroom?" she said, arms crossed and her foot tapping.

He closed the gap between them in two quick strides, silencing her with an open-mouthed kiss and staving off questions he was in no mood to answer. "Is this how you greet me? With the third degree?"

"Tom! We're in a _hallway_!"

"Then let's go somewhere more suitable. London, for instance," he said. "There's enough time for us to visit the Tower of London tonight if we hurry."

"All right," she said, still checking for students in the area. "I'll go get my things."

"Do that," he called after her. The second she was gone, he destroyed all evidence of his having visited the Chamber with a quick "scourgify," muttering to himself as he left the hallway, "I need to clean that place, or at least make that snake a litter box."

0o0o0o0

"I'm loving nighttime London, Tom," Minerva said conversationally as they walked down brightly lit cobbled streets, "but I thought we were going to see the Tower."

"All in good time, Minerva." He had picked this particular route with a purpose in mind. First of all, a slight deviation from the course they took would bring them to a secluded spot from where they could Apparate to the Tower, and later his apartment. More importantly, the area was frequented by several of the benefactors -though the term wasn't even half deserved- of Wool's Orphanage, his first place of residence, and it was also conveniently close to the homes of two certain wizards, both half-bloods to his knowledge, who had vehemently spoken out against his cause. His sources had told him of their intent to discover the identity of the elusive Lord Voldemort, and of their heavy dealings in the underground circles where the majority of his recruitment took place. All would have to be exterminated; he needed to sever all ties to the Muggle world, and he would have the added pleasure of stomping out the beginning of a resistance movement. It was only natural that there would be a resistance once he rose to the forefront, but until then, all threats to his cause would have to be swiftly and silently annihilated. His walk with Minerva served a dual purpose, then. He could scope out the area for the operation with his Death Eaters next weekend, as well as fulfill relationship obligations. He was a master of multitasking. "Just up ahead, we can detour and Apparate to the Tower of London."

"I'll have to bring you to Scotland in the summer," Minerva said cheerily. "Caithness isn't as bustling as London, not in the slightest. But the skies are clear without the city lights and the smog, and the fields are so open. Have you ever slept under the stars on the Scottish highlands?"

"No, but I'd like to." He felt that now would be an appropriate time to take her hand.

"You'll enjoy it," she said, swinging their hands, fingers interlaced. "Oh, and the seaside is spectacular as well- so many ruggedly beautiful cliffs, and the mist rises up from the sea and makes the coast a shimmery grey."

"Here, up ahead," Riddle said quickly, and dragged her to a side road that led to an alley. "All right, let me lead-" and he Disapparated with her in tow.

"Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress," Minerva said delightedly once her head stopped spinning from the trip, surveying the castle from across the Thames. "You know, Muggles believe Anne Boleyn's ghost haunts the tower."

"That's ridiculous," Riddle said. "Hold onto my arm." She acquiesced, and they flew, specter-like, across the river, and before she had a chance to gasp in surprise they were hurtling into the sky until Riddle brought them to a stop at the top of the tower. "This," he said, leading her by the hand, "is the White Tower, the site of her execution. If there's a ghost to be seen, it'll haunt this place, not the Tower Green like the Muggles think."

"Um, are we allowed to have a private tour?" Minerva said skeptically.

"Probably not." They entered the tower. "Which gate do you suppose she would have used? The Traitor's Gate?"

"Your irreverence never ceases to amaze me, Tom. I'd say the court gate, just to disagree with you."

"Court gate it is, ma minette." He smiled in the dark when he felt her take his arm again. "Why don't you light our path?"

She scoffed. "Are you crazy? That'll ruin the fun." She cleared her throat as they headed to the staircase. "So, you seem to know a good deal of Muggle history... tell me about some of the reported hauntings."

He pulled her closer. "With pleasure," he said, barely audible over their footsteps, volume magnified by the cold stone. "In 1817 a sentry patrolling the White Tower suffered a fatal heart attack after encountering a ghostly figure on this very staircase." The continued down, towards Anne Boleyn's old chamber of imprisonment. "In 1864 a sentry standing guard outside of the Queen's House reported seeing a figure veiled in mist. She was wearing a Tudor dress and a French hood, but her face wasn't distinguishable. He challenged the figure, and when it did not reply and continued towards him, the sentry made a thrust at it with his bayonet. What happened next caused him to swoon – his bayonet passed through the figure, and a firey flash ran up his rifle and gave him a shock." He brought his lips to her ear. "Shall we go back?"

"What happened to the sentry?" Minerva asked, feeling her way down the banister and letting go of his arm.

"He was court marshaled for falling asleep." He chuckled. "Eyewitness accounts saved him, though. One officer, watching from the Bloody Tower, testified that he had heard the sentry yelling at the figure to stop, and then saw him thrusting his bayonet through it. He saw the figure pass through the bayonet and then through the sentry as well." He stopped, noticing she wasn't there. "Minerva?" There was no answer. "Minerva, this isn't funny. Come here."

A scream from higher up the staircase startled him. "If she's gone and fainted out of fright..." he muttered angrily as he ran up the stairs, "so help me, I'll kill her myself. I can't bring her back with head trauma from hitting her head on stone.." He lit up the entire staircase, stopping short when she was nowhere in sight. "Minerva," he called again, wondering where she could be.

Cold fingers stroked his face from behind. "Who dares disturb my final resting place?" a voice called in an ethereal wail.

He spun around, slashing with his wand. "Oh, it's you," he said, not amused. "Don't do that, I was worried sick for my ca- for you," he hastily amended.

Minerva laughed delightedly, throwing her arms around his neck and making him catch hold of the banister to steady himself. "Did I scare you?"

"Yes, into thinking you'd fainted and were lying somewhere in the dark," he said. "I thought you wanted to see the chamber?"

"Lead on, my gallant savior," she teased, taking his arm again. "And put out that light!"

They were three-quarters of the way down the staircase, and not once had a spectral being crossed their path. "That settles it," Riddle said dismissively.

"Yes," she agreed. "Clearly, the sentries were on drugs."

"I was going to say drunk, but that works too." As he spoke, however, a figure passed through the closed door of the chamber. "Minerva!" he whispered excitedly, "did you see-"

"I did," she whispered back. "Hurry, let's catch it-" and she left him for the second time that night, running down the stairs -oblivious that she had left her wand with Riddle- and after the figure, which flew along the corridor to another room. "It's headed to the armory," he heard Minerva call.

Riddle couldn't help but smile as he ran after her. She was annoying, despicable, too morally rigid, and downright nosy, but absolutely enticing. Any other woman would never have let go of him so much as once in this location. "Don't get impaled," he called back, sliding to stop when he saw her standing before the open door, and the ghost inside, its head under its arm and a frightful scowl on its face.

Minerva backed up a few feet, stopping when she collided with his chest. "Oh, there you are, darling," she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Tom, this is the best outing _ever._" She curtsied to the ghost.

Riddle rolled his eyes, and, wand out, scrutinized the spirit. The clothes were right, from the grey damask gown to the ermine mantle. He turned to Minerva. "I'm not sure how to address her," he said to Minerva out of the corner of his mouth. "Tell me," he said slowly, "when you were living, were you Anne Boleyn herself?"

The ghost spoke, its voice accented. "I am she."

Minerva frowned. "How can that be? Only wizards or witches become ghosts-"

The specter laughed coldly. "Oh yes, of that I'm aware."

Riddle turned to Minerva as the metaphorical light bulb of epiphanic moments shone above his head. "She was a witch! It did say in the records that Henry married her due to sortilege, only I always took it to mean 'deception' rather than spells-"

The face grew livid. "I take it the both of you are among those that share our preciously rare abilities, wizard and witch of a future era! But hear this, sir," she said to Riddle, "I engaged in no such sortilege, of either meaning, to wed the king. It was an honor and a burden bestowed on me by his will and his alone. I was the only magical child born to my parents, and it was a secret shared betwixt them and I, the Lord rest their souls! I hid the knowledge from his Grace as well, knowing what would become of me should he know, though at times I would bewitch him and ease my sad existence. 'Twas only when I was condemned to imprisonment and death for false reasons that I decided to return in my spectral form, the imprint of my departed soul, to forever haunt him and foist on him the misery he once foisted on me. The Devil take him! I am glad his last Queen outlived him. But do not accuse me falsely! I will not take it quietly sir, not from _anyone_ anymore."

Riddle and Minerva exchanged looks. "How terrible for you," Minerva said. "I'm sure you're quite justified in your feelings, but Tom meant nothing by it."

The ghost looked at Minerva. "The lady speaks well," she said. "How many years past is it since my death?"

"More than four hundred years," Riddle said. "We came to see if your existence was the stuff of legend."

"You have the same look in your eyes as did his Grace, that devil in human form," the ghost said slowly, looking at him. "My lady, trust him not."

Minerva winced. "I..." She shrugged and turned to Riddle. "Tom, you're much more attractive than Henry VIII, I promise."

He laughed. "Little did I expect to be insulted by Anne Boleyn's ghost. I assure you, I would never do anything to Minerva," he said, drawing her close. "We'd better head out, Minerva, we've seen what we came in search of."

Minerva waved to the ghost. "Do try and contact some of the other headless spirits! Every Halloween they have the headless hunt, and it's said to a good deal of fun."

The ghost frowned. "I... I will look into it. I thank you, Madame, and even your courtier. Of all those who have visited my deathplace, none have been half so comely, nor well-mannered."

"Minerva, let's go," Riddle said firmly, and tugged her away. On the way to top of the tower, he teased her about her insistence on conversing with the dead. "I don't think there's a headless hunt in her area," he said, once they reached the top.

"Perhaps not, but I felt bad for her," she replied. "Now, what's next on the agend-" Her words were roughly cut off when he seized her and pulled her close, jumping off the tower's edge and hurtling to the ground in the pitch black of the night. At the last minute, he stopped their rapid descent, laughing aloud at her shocked scream and subsequent whoop of delight. The instant his feet were firmly planted in the grass he lifted her up and kissed her, feeling her hands at the back of his head and at his cheek and her face brushing his. He pulled back, feeling as elated by the drop as she seemed.

"Ever had a dive like that in Quidditch?"

"Not at all," she said delightedly. "Let's go back to the city, though. I want to see more of the night life." And once they were back to traversing the streets, she turned to him again, eyes shining, and repeated, "Best outing ever."

It didn't last, unfortunately.

"What's going on over there?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. Her hand found his wrist, clenching it tightly. "Tom, what is going on?"

Riddle felt a bit surprised when he realized that she was referring to his Death Eaters, tearing through the Muggle part of London with little care to who saw them. He was certain he had told them to hold off their operation until the following weekend, that he had pressing engagements and could not be present, and that he needed to oversee their carrying out of their assignment as well as do his reconnaissance before they did anything. Things had not gone as they were supposed to, to his great displeasure, and he felt a sense of rage building up in his chest that he hastily tried to quell when he felt Minerva's hand on his. "I..." he began, uncertain how he could possibly distract her. Her damnable morals had gotten in the way more than once before. His ethics lectures had sold his ideas of pureblood supremacy -a shield for his true aims, but effective nonetheless- and had been accepted with little questioning by the best and brightest of Slytherin house, and yet he had made little leeway with Minerva. "I don't think it's safe to be out in the middle of this, ma minette," he tried again. "Let's-"

"Oh god, Tom, those are Muggles! They- they can't know what's happening!"

"Muggles?" he repeated. _Damn those morons, they don't even know what their assignment is._

She turned to him, her green eyes wide with anger and shock. "We have to-"

"I can't let you do that, Minerva," he said, pulling her against him. "Come on, let's-"

"No! Can't you understand, they don't know what's going on!" Her eyes were starting to fill with tears from frustration, even as she raised her voice at him in anger. "Let's _go_, there are _children _in there-" and she pulled her wand out from her purse.

"Minerva, that's far too dangerous!" The last thing he needed was for her to get too close and realize who exactly the 'terrorists' were. He was fairly certain Dolohov would have forgotten a Sticking charm for his mask again...

"Fine, don't help me," she snapped, and with a slicing motion, she inflicted a stinging hex on his hand that imprisoned her. Swearing, he let go, drawing his own wand as he ran after her.

0o0o0o0

Minerva was familiar with the rush of adrenaline that accompanied any high-stress activities, thanks to her many years of Quidditch, but nothing had prepared her for this, with curses flying over her head in the London night, aimed not at her but at innocent civilians surrounding her, children who likely thought they were nothing but a bizarre sort of poorly aimed firecracker-

A jet of light hit a small boy. As it neared his face she saw his small eyes widen, first in delight, then in fear.

She looked away before it made impact.

The boy's assailant stood opposite her, a mask pulled over his face and a flash of white teeth apparent in the darkness as he laughed. "What level of sadism is this?" she murmured, steeling herself as she began to duel, refusing to be moved by the crumpling Muggles around her. "Where the hell is Tom?" she gasped as at last her opponent's spells broke through her shield charm, jarring her wand arm and knocking her back a few paces. The rest of the men had congregated, their original pursuits forgotten and the Muggles left to burn, their attention now focused on the witch who had decided to fight against them. "I - will - _never_ - let him live this down," she said, her words strangled as she slowly was overpowered by the assailants. "Very brave, isn't it, ten against one?" she managed, swaying on her feet.

Dimly, she thought she heard her name. _Took him long enough,_ she thought, before her own scream ripped the cold night air as the Cruciatus curse hit her in the small of her back and she collapsed, her head hitting the cobbled streets violently as she did so.

0o0o0o0

Riddle swore in disgust when he saw that rather than attend to the wounded, Minerva had decided to take on his Death Eaters in a streak of selfless gallantry. "Fucking Gryffindors," he muttered as he ran after her. This would prove to be a difficult incident to explain away.

As if the world had decided to not only inconvenience him with mortality and incompetent Death Eaters to work around, said Death Eaters now surrounded Minerva, apparently oblivious to the fact that the woman who challenged them was none other than the woman they had spent an evening with at Cygnus'. The sheer stupidity was appalling... there ought to be a law, he decided. And naturally Minerva was not one to accept that she was outnumbered and get out. No, the idiotic woman decided to stay and go out in a blaze of glory if that's what it took to save a few Muggles. How her own injuries benefitted anyone, he would never know. It would have been more economical and more effective if she had just helped the Muggles directly, rather than pull her martyr act. This would be the first and last time he became intimate with an observant Christian.

When the Death Eaters encircled her, he had rather hoped at least Cygnus would recognize her -they had after all been in class together- and signal the others to let her go discreetly. But naturally that wasn't the case. In a sense it was a sign of his effectiveness as a leader to have instilled such a sense of brute authority and sadism over those weaker, but really? When the victim in question was the dark lord's amour? The notion that these were men to fill various offices in his new world order struck him as a potentially bad idea for the first time. Minerva swayed in her place as she continued to duel, and he could tell it was only a matter of time before things could spiral out of control. But his temper was rising, and as he neared her and witnessed the stupidity of all assembled firsthand at such close range it boiled over.

He felt her name leave his lips even as he raised his wand, his own voice sounding mildly alarmed even as the jet of light from his Cruciatus curse sailed between two of the men and struck her back. He was quite certain she had turned slightly as she fell, more certain that they had locked eyes a moment before her head made a hideous crack as it struck the pavement.

In a moment he had pushed between the two black robed figures that stood between him and her, and he knelt beside her, gingerly lifting her up. "What an abysmal display," he said coldly, his voice deadly calm. "I made my instructions clear. This was to be done _the following weekend._"

"My Lord," Malfoy said hurriedly, "if I may-"

"Impedementa." Malfoy fell back, caught by two of the Death Eaters. "This degree of insensitivity to my plans, this degree of insubordination, this flagrant disrespect for my _explicit_ instructions-" He shook his head, his lip curling. "There are punishments I could devise for you, consequences that ill befit even these Muggles that you terrorized _despite_ my instructions. Tell me, what would you do in response to such... disobedience, Yaxley?"

"I... I don't know, my Lord."

"You don't know," he repeated, voice soft. "And you couldn't stop there, could you? I thought you knew better than to interfere with as delicate a matter as winning _her _over," he said, looking at Minerva, limp in his arms. "But Lord Voldemort is merciful. I will forgive this transgression.. for now. And a repeat offense will not be tolerated. Just as I forgive, I do not forget." He turned to leave, blasting aside Dolohov and Nott, too slow to get out of his way. "Fucking incompetency," he said, the first of many times that night.

0o0o0o0

"Minerva."

It was a new experience, Minerva decided, to wake up in Tom's bed in London, her entire body sore and bruised, and her head throbbing from the night before. It wasn't that the concept was completely outlandish. But the manner in which she'd arrived in this situation was fairly unexpected, to say the least. Still more odd was seeing Tom sitting on the edge of the bed, brow furrowed in concern, long fingers gently caressing her hand that lay on top of the coverlet. "Well, look who decided to show up." She tried to sit up, grimacing and lying back again. "How long have I been out?"

"You moron. You insipid, damnable, disgustingly brave moron."

She smiled weakly. "That's much more in character. Have you been here the whole time?" He didn't answer, instead turning his attention to her temple, running his wand over the area carefully as though to check for damage. "Care to tell me what you're doing, Tom?"

"I don't associate with stupid people," he said tersely. "Good, you're doing a little better. What the hell were you _thinking_?"

"I was _thinking_ that someone needed to help those people," she said, easing her head back onto the pillows. "What I _didn't_ think through was exactly how I'd go about that... in retrospect, that was not one of my smarter moves."

He snorted, not deigning to reply, but instead finishing his check on the status of her concussion and arranging her straggling hair into some semblance of order. "Oh no, it was brilliant, really. Taking on ten or more veritable madmen by yourself. Genius. By the way, your arm is broken."

"I had you as backup," she said sweetly, ignoring the sarcasm. "Even if you took your own time in helping me. How exactly did you get me out of there? I saw you right as that sod used the Cruciatus curse on me at point blank range. Remind me to report him later."

"I have my ways," he said, "and I may have to show you at some point, if you insist on being so stupid in these situations. Fearless and determined, perhaps, but indisputably stupid."

"Tom," she said, fixing her eyes on him and taking his hand, "thank you. Really. I knew you'd come after me, despite that Slytherin tendency towards self-preservation."

"How could I leave you to fend for yourself? You're rubbish at dueling."

"Ignoring that," she said, grimacing as an attempt to roll her eyes brought on a new wave of pain at the base of her skull. "But really, thank you. If you hadn't intervened, they'd be looking for a new Transfiguration teacher by now, and you and I both know how arduous that process can be."

"Don't say that," he said suddenly, a curious expression on his face as he seized her shoulders.

"What?"

"Don't joke about something like that. I don't want to think about what may have happened..." His voice trailed off, and he averted his eyes, decidedly staring at her hair as though it was much more fascinating than it really was, running his hands through it carefully, not wanting to aggravate her injuries.

"Tom," she said gently, "I'm fine. I'm perfectly all right."

"Oh, you say that."

"Darling," she said, turning his face to hers, "it's fine, nothing happened, thanks to you."

"Obviously," he said, looking away again, determinedly playing with her hair. "Whoever said something was the matter?"

Minerva pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I really am grateful, Tom. I'm doing a poor job expressing it, I know."

"Do you want to know how to express it effectively?" he asked suddenly, locking his gaze on hers.

"Sure," she said, and half closed her eyes, expecting some sort of 'favor' to be in order.

She was surprised then, when he said, "Promise that you will never do that to me again." He cupped her cheek. "I mean that, too."

Minerva smiled, feeling very moved. "I promise, darling." She turned, brushing the palm of his hand with her lips. "Don't worry about me."

"I'll hold you to that, Minerva McGonagall." His tone became businesslike. "Now, I don't think you're in any shape to see Karajan in concert tonight.. it's nearly four and we'd have to be at the theatre by seven-thirty if we want to see it, and you're in no condition to Apparate."

"Nearly four?" she echoed in disbelief. "Well... I came with the intent of a piano concert and I don't think I'm going to pass it up so easily. Help me up, I need to shower."

"Listen to me," he said, irritated. "For once, take my suggestion. Spend the evening quietly and rest a bit, or you'll face uncomfortable questions when we return to Hogwarts tomorrow night."

"Damn it Tom, I want a stirring rendition of a Chopin nocturne." She pulled herself up, using his arms as supports so she was half-sitting. "At least let's go tomorrow."

"I'll decide if you're able or not. And if there are any riots in the streets, we're staying in. You are _not_ going to get another concussion." He checked her head again, running his wand along the length of the bruise that blackened her temple and extended into her hair for a sizable distance.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"That thing... with the wand."

"Oh, it's a method of checking for any tissue damage that I invented," he said coolly. "You don't need to be a healer to know basic first aid, Minerva."

"Oh, and of course you did nothing for the concussion itself. As if I'll believe that." She smiled knowingly. "When will you learn to stop upstaging me?"

"Probably when you learn to start listening to me. And yes, you'll be fine with rest by Sunday, though I'm not sure if the bruise will have cleared up by then."

"Touché." She sank back onto the pillows. "I hate to be needy, but help me up? I really want to shower, Karajan or no."

"Fine." Ignoring her outstretched hand, he carefully lifted her, supporting her head with a hand at the nape of her neck and a sudden glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Want help with the shower, too?"

"Ha ha. I think I'll manage."

It was getting easier to play the role of attentive lover, Riddle decided. Clearly, even the most sensible and independent of women were still susceptible to the whole protective act. Yes, he had made that little inconvenience into quite the asset; Minerva's forced light demeanor did little to hide the depth of how she felt towards his soft advances. She had appeared quite touched when he had feigned distress at the idea of her death, and it was obvious that she was flattered by the attention she received in her injured state. Perhaps his Death Eaters' incompetence had resulted in unforeseen benefits.. the fact that his heroic rescue was unplanned made the whole thing all the more believable to Minerva as a freak accident. It had certainly helped a great deal in his quest to gain her complete trust. But it made breaking the news of what the Death Eaters did still more difficult. Perhaps he could pass them off as a fascist political party? No, that was what Grindlewald tried to do... he had to be original.

Ah well. He'd find a solution eventually.

Back in the bedroom after managing to dress herself with minimal assistance, Minerva inched her way back onto the pillows, closing her eyes. "Okay. We should probably write to Dumbledore about this... I'm quite certain that this particular attack wasn't an isolated incidence. There have been stories about things of this nature in the papers lately, and we may have gotten a lead onto who the culprits are."

Riddle was startled. "What can Dumbledore do about it, exactly?"

"Oh, he has influence in Ministry matters, you know. He could likely get something done." She played with her damp hair. "Why? What would you do about it?"

"Forget about it for now, and focus on keeping your activity to a minimum."

"A valid point," she conceded. "Any idea on the status of my arm?" she said, as Riddle zipped up the skirt.

"Haven't checked it yet." He chuckled softly. "How will you explain that to everyone?"

"Um, I'll just say what happened, obviously." She snorted. "Stop acting like this is something we're never to speak of again."

"Maybe it should be."

Minerva smiled. "You're taking the whole thing worse than I am," she said softly. "Nothing happened, Tom, isn't that what's important?"

'Nothing happened'? His Death Eaters nearly exposing themselves, completely bungling his operation, and seriously injuring a key person in his plans did _not_ constitute nothing happening. But he feigned a sigh, combing his fingers through her wet hair and said, "I suppose you're right." He tilted his head. "I still haven't received a proper thank you, you know."

"Well, I wasn't in any condition to give you one."

"Feeling up to it now?"

"Maybe." She pulled him down on top of her with a mischievous smile, as best as she could with one hand. "I could give it a go."

0o0o0o0

The cool evening breeze blew in through the open window, lifting the blinds and causing them to jounce against the sill. "Do you want me to close that?" Riddle asked softly, shifting his position to look at her.

"No, I like it. It's... soothing." She tilted her head, a coquettish expression on her face. "You're being really unlike yourself."

"Forgive me my concern for your newly fragile state."

Minerva laughed. "I thought it was sweet."

"God forbid."

"Really, though," she persisted, "you've been nothing but thoughtful, and attentive, and... well, Tom, I'm starting to think you're up to something."

"Impossible," he murmured into her hair, her head against his chest. "I thought I was the epitome of straight-forward, compliant behaviour."

"Yes, because raiding absinthe from Dippet's office isn't underhanded, or anything."

Riddle inhaled the scent of her shampoo. "Is that lilac?"

"Oh, nice subject change. And yes, it is." Minerva frowned, curling her hands around his shirt.

"My memory of that evening around the time I fell is very fuzzy. I have half a mind to see Poppy about it over at Saint Mungo's."

"You had a severe blow to the head," Riddle said easily. "I'm sure it will all come back to you. What do you remember?"

"Oh, dueling those men, obviously," she said slowly, "and then someone hit me with a cruciatus curse, and I fell. I think it was one of the men behind me."

"Hmm. Did you make any sudden movements that would prompt them to do that?"

She frowned. "Yes, I turned back a moment. I heard you call me."

"Is that all you remember?" he asked intently. This last answer would tell him just how effective his memory charm was.

"Yes, I think that's it," she said without a moment's hesitation. "You called me, one of the men had the cruciatus on me, and I blacked out before I hit the ground." She laughed. "The concussion is an accessory, when you look at it that way."

Riddle smiled back, satisfied. "As is the broken arm."

"No, that happened during the duel. But I wasn't sure if it was broken at the time."

They were silent for a few moments, Minerva playing with the buttons on his shirt idly. "Why did seeing that upset you so much?" he asked at last.

"My father was a Muggle, Tom."

Riddle ran a hand through her hair. "Why do you say 'was'? Did he die?"

"Killed, actually, by one of Grindelwald's followers in a mix-up following the end of his reign of terror in '45." She bit her lip, pulling at stray threads on his shirt, tensing as his arm enveloped her. "He had quite a bit of exposure to magic, and even then he was... He had no control over what happened to him, and was completely helpless-"

"Shhh," Riddle said softly, kissing her temple. "You don't have to talk about it. But Minerva, the Avada Kedavra is the most humane, it's so quick-"

"They turned his blood to acid."

He stopped. "_What_?"

"They made his blood highly acidic, with a pH of hydrochloric acid. Do you know what that does to you?"

"I...can imagine ." Riddle was unnerved; as far as he knew, that had been a spell of his own invention and shared with precious few. He did not like being the second to discover anything.

"By the time someone -someone who could help- got to him, it was too late." She refused to turn her face to his, and he could feel her holding back tears against his chest. Her breath came in soft gasps, as she tried to moderate her breathing without seeming obvious.

"Minerva, don't cry," he said, stroking her back and hair. "I don't want to see you this upset," he added, feeling he may as well do the thing properly.

She lifted her face to his. "Do you want to file for sainthood now, or later?" she asked in a wavery voice with an attempt at a smile.

He closed the gap between them. "Sainthood is no fun, ma minette," he whispered. They were still again.

"What a wasted Saturday," she said at last. "I'm afraid I spoiled our plans, didn't I?"

"Hardly. Again, you're incandescently beautiful when you're angry," he said evenly. "And even though I never want to see you do it again, you were terrific when you confronted those men."

She smiled. "Thank you. I'll remember to use that as my excuse whenever we argue after this." She paused. "The Tower of London was nice."

"Very. So was meeting Ann Bolyn's ghost. That was a history lesson I hardly expected."

She sat up. "I think I'm going to dry my hair." As she pushed herself to sitting, her hand pushed Riddle's shirt open to one side, exposing a jagged line of scar tissue. Mildy alarmed, she unbuttoned it a bit further, finally making short work of the buttons and spreading the fabric wide. She leaned over him.

"Minerva, I am not going to make love to you when your arm is broken and you're weak from a duel. Stop that right now."

"It's not that, it's... _that._ I thought it was only a small..." She trailed off. "You only showed-"

"I didn't think it necessary to show you the entire thing," Riddle said nonchalantly. "It's a fairly ugly scar." He looked at her pointedly. "Muggle inflicted, I may add."

"Both sides have their victims and persecutors, Tom," Minerva said slowly, trailing her finger along the jagged length, from clavicle to pectoral.

"But which side has more, ma minette?" he asked her quietly, guiding her hand to the thickest line of scar tissue, and then to the Dark Mark on his arm. "Which side deserves more?"

She didn't know how to answer. "I'm not sure.. there's no hard and fast rule for that."

"I think I am." He buttoned his shirt up again. "I think we _both_ are." Standing, he pulled her to her feet. "Need any help with the hair?"

"I'll manage. I'm a lot better by now. Amazing what rest and no concert can do for you."

"Tom?" she asked later, hair freshly dried, "How can you call the killing curse humane?"

He kissed her, taking her face in his hands as he answered. "Because I saw it used."

She swallowed. "How old were you?"

"Sixteen."

She curled up against him. "I don't blame you."

Unseen by Minerva, Riddle smiled. _There's a start_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Oooooh yes, now HERE'S a chapter I'm rather proud of, even if it's like a book long. Shout-outs are in order to my wonderful friends who gave me the inspiration for that Tower of London bit. You both are so creative! Anyway, hope you all enjoyed, and here's to more updates in the near future! Please review!**


	25. A Long Overdue Lover's Quarrel

To my lovely readers: I have SUCH a bad headache right now. Sorry if this chapter is lacking in Teh Funnehs. When I'm feeling better my sense of humor improves, and I don't have to struggle to hold my muse. Hope you like it regardless! And thanks for reviewing the last chapter. :D

* * *

><p>Staving off questions from Dumbledore had been difficult enough, Minerva had decided, thinking back to the time spent reassuring the man that all was well. He had told her that there was no longer any need for her to observe Tom's classes, that she needn't trouble herself with his doings in the slightest. She had protested, pointing out that perhaps the reason he hadn't tried anything questionable was <em>because<em> of her constant scrutiny, and his intent to keep her invested in him. But all her best efforts resulted in nothing more than a very shaky semblance of security on Dumbledore's part, and she left feeling dissatisfied and confused overall.

On Sunday Tom had taken her to see Poppy, who confirmed that all was well with the concussion -mercifully, it had been mild- and gave her a dash of Skelegro to hurry the broken arm along. "You'll be fit to teach and feeling like yourself by tomorrow, Minerva," Poppy had said brightly. She had even praised Tom's quick thinking and first aid, pulling Minerva aside after treatment and telling her, "_There's_ a man who doesn't lose his head in a crisis."

Minerva had blushed, stealing a glance at Tom, composed as ever, waiting for them to wrap up. "He's... he's special," she said at last. "Different," she added, frowning.

"You know, he always did seem to be interested in you during those prefect meetings," Poppy teased her.

"Oh, so you were stalking me all through school?" she said, smiling. "Want to explain yourself there?"

"You know, I never thought he'd be the sort to take an interest in you," Poppy said after a pause. "I always envisioned you with a younger equivalent of Professor Dumbledore..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Poppy," Minerva scoffed. "But it's been lovely seeing you. I'll try and visit more often in the summer-"

"Don't hesitate to bring your new beau," she replied, a twinkle in her eye. "Don't get into any more duels, either!"

"I won't try to," Minerva said honestly, and she kept the promise for the time being, as they had spent the Sunday at Tom's place. In fact, they passed the day in such a lazy manner that she was only too happy to be back to work the next day. Perhaps she'd even take Tom's advice and relax during first hour, rather than observe his class.

o0o0o0o0o

Riddle felt as though he could finally relax back in the haven of his office, and resume his routine. The weekend had set him completely on edge rather than serve as a outlet of relaxation. First, he had to attend to an injured Minerva and not get mad at her for bringing it all upon herself. Second, he had to make sure her mind didn't stray into her almost catching him in the Chamber. And lastly, he had to do everything in his power to make sure she didn't go to Dumbledore _or_ the Ministry about the happenings of Friday night. All of the above resulted in far too much time lounging in bed, holding her while she alternately ranted about the type of monsters who would terrorize civilians and grew forlorn thinking about the victims. Too much time had been spent murmuring soft reassurances to her, caressing her hair, and feeding her various nauseating, stereotypical 'romantic' foods for brunch to heighten the mood. The amount of work this required on his part for damage control was enough to make any lesser man go insane.

In other words, if he saw even _one more _chocolate dipped strawberry, he'd vomit.

But what was his reward? She _probably_ wouldn't go to Dumbledore about both instances. He didn't even get any f*cking _certainty_ after all that effort. He was seriously starting to question what his odds of success would be if he just wiped her memory and planted false ones in its stead. Because, so help him, if they were higher than the odds of her not saying anything, he'd bloody well do it, and enjoy it too. If it weren't for that risk factor, he'd wipe her memory that instant. A strong mind like hers wouldn't be easy to manipulate.

However, once he'd calmed down and she had been soothed, each settled in with a book apiece, he was glad he hadn't acted rashly. If anything, this only elevated his standing with her by far. Perhaps it wouldn't be long before he could give the Basilisk an answer in the affirmative to that 'physical intimacy' question. He knew that once that was done, he wouldn't have to worry about her snooping anymore.

o0o

The dark arts class of seventh years filed in, and Minerva was absent, to his delight. Excellent; he'd capitalize on this to the best of his ability.

"Professor, where's your shadow?"

He stopped dead, wand arm raised to write something on the blackboard. "_What_?"

Eustacia Edgecomb nudged her friend and smiled innocently. "Where's Professor McGonagall? She's usually here."

"Five points from Ravenclaw for talking out of turn, Miss Edgecomb," he said uninterestedly. "And it's none of my concern nor my business where Professor McGonagall is, nor is it any of yours. I would imagine she's in her office, where she's supposed to be. Take your seats." The girls complied, and he settled back to the lovely routine of lecturing, punctuating it here or there with a clever affront to the intelligence of certain choice students. He was none too surprised to see that few had done the assigned reading on Inferi, something what few answers he had glimpsed from the following pop quiz evidenced. Perhaps today would call for a different tactic. "Let's discuss the practicality of the subject outlined in last night's reading," he said suddenly, after the class had sunk into torpor and his questions were left unanswered. "In open forum format," he added. Languidly, he looked around the room. "Anyone who hasn't talked and contributed to the discussion will lose points for their house." _That_ got the attention of the majority, and the first few rows of students looked a bit more alive,* but still the room was silent. "Anyone want to make an opening remark? Or were the lot of you too busy not paying attention when I assigned the reading?" Still they were silent. "Very well. Malfoy!"

Abraxas Malfoy's head snapped up. Apparently he had heard from his father about the incident over the weekend, because he answered with no small amount of trepidation. "Sir?"

"How do you suppose Inferi could be beneficial to a magical society?"

Abraxas frowned. "I suppose in matters of... defense, sir."

"Elaborate."

"Well, for a high-profile area that would require a lot of security. Rather than risk the lives of those living, why not utilize the bodies of the deceased? They'd be more effective too, without the instinct for self preservation the living have."

"How would you get the bodies, though?" Eric Hurst asked, before Riddle could praise the answer. "To amass enough bodies for a...for a, you know, an army, you'd need a hundred at least."

Riddle leaned against the desk, silent as he waited for one of his private disciples to answer.

"You could always use donated bodies," Eustacia Edgecomb supplied, "you know, like cadavers Healers learn anatomy on?"

"Or," Abraxas said carefully, "you could use bodies of the fallen. Like casualties of an Auror raid, for instance." He smiled. "That way, their lives really won't have been in vain."

Riddle was more than aware of the fact that in his class, the students were torn between fear, an intense dislike of his strict methods, and admiration of his irreverence -and potentially his looks. He knew that by now, any outright approval shown would send the class, precarious position they were in, scrambling to spit out answers that would win them a tight-lipped smile from the teacher. At this point, they would be dying for his approval.

Clearly, he was in the wrong line of work. He ought to have been a child psychologist. Briefly he imagined himself seated behind a mahogany desk, while insecure teenagers told him all of their deep-seated emotional issues while reclining on a heinous plaid couch. Yes, teenagers' minds were always the most fun to mess with... Suddenly it occurred to him that a child psychologist would also have to see _children_. An image of a squalling five-year-old drooling and blowing phlegm on the already hideous couch was so off-putting that he returned to the present at once. With a one-sided smile on the corner of his mouth, he nodded. "Precisely," he said at last, voice extremely quiet. "A good duelist doesn't just respect his allies. He respects his opponents as well. And what could be a better show of respect than eternal service to a better cause?" He paused to let it sink in. "What could be more ennobling than serving the right side in death?" The students -sheeple that they were- were nodding. _Idiots_.

"Wait a minute," Hurst said suddenly. "Not all duels are to the death, and besides, isn't it _more_ respectful to give the body a burial you would for a friend?" He frowned. "And you'd be forcing the person into doing something he'd have hated if he were alive and had any say over his body."

Riddle let his features harden, and waited for that inevitable moment when the boy's face would fall under scrutiny. It didn't happen, to his displeasure, and as the students stood upon hearing the bell, Riddle raised his voice to be heard over the din, saying, "Stay after a bit, Hurst."

Eric Hurst returned to his seat, third from the door in the second row, and they commenced a staring match that lasted a short while after the others left. The door swung shut, and Riddle locked it with a click, never once breaking eye contact. At last the boy averted his eyes, and Riddle was rewarded with the feelings of dominance and superiority he was now so accustomed to, causing the corners of his mouth to curl upwards. The whole situation was most reminiscent of the cave with Amy and Dennis. A pity he couldn't make the boy an Inferius here and now.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Professor," Hurst said, not looking up from the desk.

"Don't be," Riddle said easily. "What I have in mind is unrelated to your performance in class today." It wouldn't do for the boy to know it was in fact a direct consequence of his nonconformist tendencies.

"Sir?" he asked, frowning.

"Your last practical exam was actually outstanding, and of late your essays have been near flawless- or at least a sight better than those of your peers." He paused, twirling his wand through his fingers. "Some of my more advanced students have sought out extra instruction." He raised a brow. "In fact... I'm surprised that you haven't yet."

The boy looked embarrassed. "I'm really honored, Professor, but... I'm not sure if I want to."

"May I ask why?"

"Well," Hurst hesitated, "I really don't have a genuine interest in defense against the dark arts, or the study of the dark arts themselves, sir. I'm fine with just... doing the work, like it's any old class. I guess I'm trying to say I don't have any real 'passion for the subject,' like some of the other guys, like Abraxas and Eustacia."

"I see," Riddle said, suspicious as to just how candid Hurst was being. "What _is_ your subject of particular interest?"

"Transfiguration," he said automatically. "It just strikes me as the most... complicated of the subjects, Professor."

"You want something more challenging." Riddle said softly, more statement than question.

"Um... yeah." Hurst looked taken aback. "Yeah, I guess-"

"All the more reason you should come to the extra classes," Riddle interjected smoothly. "We're exploring far more advanced subjects, subjects I'd be very surprised to see on your upcoming NEWTS."

"I'll come if you think it's valuable, sir," Hurst said at last.

"Good. I expect to see you after seven, in the Astronomy tower next week. If anyone asks, you are taking preparatory classes for the upcoming exams."

"Sure, Professor." Hurst looked all too relieved when Riddle unlocked the door with a flick of his wand, causing him to wonder about the boy's discomfort. Surely he couldn't have anticipated that he was to be used as a guinea pig for Abraxas and the others to practice unforgivable curses on? He happened to glance at his desk.

"God damn it," he growled, and he picked up the Madame Malkin's catalogue, incinerating it in his bare hands without even reaching for his wand.

o0o0o

"Professor? Can I ask you something?"

Minerva glanced up from the papers she was putting together and took off her reading glasses. "Certainly, Hurst. Pomona, you go ahead, I'll meet you later," she added, waving Pomona along from where she waited in the doorway.

Pomona shrugged, shutting the door behind her, calling, "I'll be in the staff room, Min."

Minerva returned to her work. "What is it, Hurst? Do you need a recommendation letter for your application to the Ministry?"

"No, Professor," the boy said. "Actually I was kind of hoping you'd do me a favor."

"Get to the point, Hurst, I'm on a schedule here."

He fidgeted. "Professor Riddle suggested that I take extra classes with some of the other guys."

Minerva raised an eyebrow. "Well, if you need them, you have to go, regardless of whether you want to or not." She paused. "Though I don't recall you needing remedial classes. How have your grades been this semester?"

"They're fine, and they aren't remedial classes. He wants to work with the theoretical side of the magic, and do some stuff outside of the curriculum for the NEWT classes." He shrugged. "I just... don't like the idea, is all. I'm not a big fan of the class -I mean, the subject- so going further than necessary into... that stuff... just isn't something I want to do."

"I see," she said. "Did you tell Professor Riddle what you're telling me?"

Hurst grimaced. "He's not my advisor, and besides I can't talk to him like that."

"What _did_ you tell him, then?"

"I said I'd go," he said slowly, "and I was hoping you'd make him not hold me to that."

Minerva stood. "I don't see why not," she said, "but next time, don't hesitate to tell Tom- that is, Professor Riddle- what you told me. He'll be more understanding than you'd expect."

The boy looked surprised. "Alright, Professor." They walked to the door together. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said, and set off for Tom's office, hoping it wouldn't take too long. Pomona would be wondering where she was. She made a mental note to tell Tom to try being a bit less unapproachable to the students. Minerva sighed once she reached his door, and knocked as she entered. "Can I come in? I'm already in so say yes."

Tom glanced up and groaned, running a hand through hair already standing on end. "Just what I need, another distraction. Well, at least this one is worth my while."

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, good evening to you too."

He groaned again. "You may as well sit down, I won't be leaving here for a while. What's going on?"

"Hurst came to my office after dinner, and-" she stopped, eyes widening as she took in the mess; papers were strewn around the room, books were on the ground, posters and diagrams on the wall had been knocked askew. And above all this, the stench of scorched feathers permeated the room. "What happened here?" she demanded, crossing to the wind and forcing it open.

"An unexpected guest dropped by," he said, not bothering to look up. "I escorted him to the exit with a bit of force."

"An unexpected...?" Minerva frowned. "Oh _Merlin_, Tom, you aren't talking about _Lowther_ again."

"No, I'm talking about the _other_ toucan that has it out for me. What do you think, Minerva?"

"I think if you're going to be rude, I don't have time for you," she returned. "I came to talk to you about one of our students, Tom. Eric Hurst. He seems very uncomfortable with the idea of extra lessons with you."

"That's not my fault," he snapped. "Lowther's trying to make me out to be a creepy gay child molester. He left a Madame Malkin's catalogue o my desk."

Minerva tried and failed to conceal a snicker. "But you _do_ read them."

"Only in appearances! I used to transfigure my more private research papers to look like that."

MInerva couldn't believe it. "That's impossible. I would've been able to tell."

Tom stood and stretched, lazily planting a kiss on her cheek. "There's still a bit that you don't know about me, ma minette. So, we've cleared up this issue with Hurst?"

"Not so fast," McGonagall said, leaning across his desk and pushing him back into his chair. "Hurst didn't exactly say that extra classes with _you_ made him uncomfortable. He said he was uncomfortable learning more about the dark arts and deviating too much from the set curriculum."

Tom shrugged. "If people hadn't deviated from accepted norms, we wouldn't have this degree of magical advancement. We'd still be limited to basic spells. We wouldn't have the very principles of magic at our disposal, the fact that in its purest state, it's just the manipulation of energy and matter. And with that we can do _so_ much more than basic spells."

Minerva sat. "What do you mean, only 'basic spells'?"

Tom pushed aside his papers and leaned toward her. "I mean, Minerva, that before, it was only possible to cast spells by speaking the incantation and channeling one's magic through an instrument. Following this theory, though, one can cast spells simply by willing the subject to do as the wizard desires, and manipulating energy to get it done...without a instrument. It was by following this theory wordless magic came about. Why not take things to the next level?"

"Tom, that's just a theory. You're talking about wandless magic in a highly specific state." She frowned. "In concept it works, but no one has the ability to do it. We don't teach wandless magic in Hogwarts for those reasons; it's far too advanced and most of it is theoretical."

"No one has the ability? How odd; I do."

Minerva laughed, trying to sober up once Tom's expression darkened at her mirth. "You are so _full_ of yourself. You expect me to believe you can perform highly specialized magic without a wand?"

"Far better than anyone else, yes."

"But it's physically impossible," she said. "Every researcher who tried has failed in the end."

"That's because I doubt anyone is born with the ability," he said. "I'd be shocked if they had succeeded."

"Oh, but you have the ability."

"Yes, but it's acquired," Tom said. "Unfortunately I can't claim natural talent for that discipline; it's been a bit of work."

"But how would you?" she snapped, frustrated. "That would mean you altered your body chemistry-"

"Obviously, Minerva. For such a bright witch, you're awful at taking hints."

"-permanently," she finished. "But... but Tom, that would mean you used... questionable rituals for that-"

"I don't like you calling them questionable, but again, obviously," he replied, unperturbed. He reached for a paper, looking at her curiously when she grabbed his wrist and stopped him. "Yes?"

"You used dark magic to _what_?"

"I never said 'dark'."

"Don't avoid the question, Tom."

"Improve my already impressive skill to still more impressive levels," he said sweetly, freeing his wrist and bringing her hand to his lips. "We've been through this already, ma minette."

"Tom, that's _illegal_!"

"What are you, my wife?" he scoffed. "And besides, don't pretend that _you've_ never pushed the boundaries, Minerva. Don't pretend that you've never entertained thoughts of just experimenting with 'forbidden' magic."

"No, I haven't," Minerva said firmly. "Knowing theory is one thing, and putting it into practice is quite another."

"I'll convince you of its use in good time," he said, releasing her hand and picking up the paper. "Right now I have to catch up on grading. Tell me, what do you know about Inferi, compared to ghosts?"

She wasn't satisfied, but could tell he was through with the subject and wouldn't say any more. "Um... animated corpse compared to an imprint of the deceased's soul... is there really any more to say?"

Wordlessly Tom showed her the quiz he was grading. "'Ghosts are transparent,'" she read slowly. "Wow."

Tom nodded, tossing the paper aside with a short, derisive laugh. "And the rest aren't much better."

Minerva sighed, and sat down next to him, drawing up a chair. "Well, at least it didn't say 'Inferi are transparent' or some such twaddle. You should see some of the rubbish I get from my fourth years. I'm convinced that a few certain students have learned absolutely /nothing/ all year." She paused, glancing at the bulletin. "How's dueling club going?"

"Terribly, now that I've lost the founder."

"Be quiet, you're better at that sort of thing than I am," she returned. "And now you've got what you wanted; I got a dueling club started for you, and now you're running it. And Albus doesn't have anything to say about it."

"True, but you hardly visit during duel days anymore," he pointed out. "I've missed you."

"_You_ missed me?" she teased. "Tom Riddle, don't lead me to believe that you're capable of softer emotions!"

"I've grown quite fond of you, Minerva," he said candidly. "No need for you to make light of it."

She paused and looked at him, wondering. She herself had been quite straightforward with how she felt about him, but this was the first time he'd even indicated his feelings for her. She studied his face to gage his sincerity, and concluded that he was being honest. "Well, Tom... I'm quite touched, then."

He smiled at her, and she leaned forward, kissing him lightly. "Stay until I finish this?" he asked, running a hand through her hair.

"I'd really love to, but I've got grading of my own to finish, and I think I'd better take care of it in the staff room with Pomona. I already said I would. Besides, if I stay here, neither of us will get any work done."

"Good night, then."

"Good nigh- wait," she said, remembering suddenly, "we didn't sort out that bit about Hurst."

"I thought we did," Tom said, arching a brow.

"Really? And what is it?"

His voice hardened. "He'll be coming to the lesson as he agreed to."

"You can't make a student come in for extra classes if he's _passing_." she said, raising her voice.

"He agreed to it himself."

"You intimidated him!"

"I'm his teacher, and therefore I can make him attend," he said calmly, ignoring her last.

"You can't abuse your role as a teacher like that!" she said incredulously.

"It's in his best interest, Minerva," he said evenly.

"I'm getting out of here," she said in disgust. "I thought you wanted to _educate_, not pull cheap power plays like this!"

Tom stood and glared at her. "A cheap power play? Really? Tell me, since you named it thusly, what you intend to do about it? Appeal to a _higher powe_r?"

"Oh, I can't do anything," she said. "He asked me to make you reconsider. You refused, and pulled _this_ crap. So I can only ignore you until you come to your senses and apologize, and excuse Hurst from his agreement." And with that she stormed out of his office, slamming the door behind her.

"Minerva!" she heard him call, but nostrils flaring, she walked briskly to her room, reaching it in record time, and, papers in hand, met Pomona to grade. Very few Os and Es were to be found the next day in class.

o0o

Riddle was _pissed_. After Lowther's appearance Minerva had barged in, with requests from the idiot Hurst. As if Minerva could get him to reconsider his decision! Although, judging by her heated threat to ignore him, and her following through thus far, he was starting to wonder if he would in fact have to apologize. In an attempt to be 'cute' he had written her a note inviting her to join him in the staff room, folded it to make an origami cat, and sent it on its way to her room. When he retired for the night, after receiving no response, he found an origami toucan on his bed, viciously tearing into his cat.

"Who the hell does she think she is?" he had growled. _How dare she mock his toucan problem_? As if the world sensed the unjust card he had been dealt, Lowther chose that moment to pay another visit, looking ridiculous with his half-charred feathers.

"Evening, Professor Riddle."

"I'm not going to even dignify that with a proper response."

Mr. Lowther seemed to smirk with his beak as he perched on the open window sill. "Things not going so well with you, then?"

"Get out of my room. Or are you really that eager to be engulfed in fiendfyre again?" The bird winced and adjusted its feathers over the huge, bald burnt spots on its body.

"Just pointing out something I noticed," the toucan said slyly, much of its bravado gone. "Unless I'm mistaken."

Riddle twirled his wand through his fingers. _One flick.. it would be easy.._

"You and McGonagall had a lover's quarrel, didn't you?"

Riddle laughed. "Amusing. I did hear once from a fairly reliable source that victims of fiendfyre experience vivid hallucinations."

"So you did?" the bird persisted. "I heard you trying to justify the use of the dark arts to her too... with little success."

"And?" Riddle said, his composure perfect. "I didn't know it was possible to think so lucidly while burning alive."

"A confession would be nice about now, Professor Riddle," Lowther said. "I heard it all."

"And what can you do about it? Go to Dumbledore, and betray yourself to be a crass magical toucan plotting to overthrow him?" Riddle sneered.

"Close," it said. "I'll go to Fawkes. Fawkes _loves_ me."

Riddle's face contorted to a murderous scowl and his eyes flashed scarlet. The jet of green light erupted from his wand, but the toucan let go of the windowsill at the last moment, causing the curse to fly out over the Hogwarts grounds. Riddle thought he saw an owl drop off in the distance.

"I am an idiot," he concluded, forcing himself to calm down. "Henceforth, I shall no longer banter with the enemy when there is work to be done. This flair for drama must be confined to the stage, and the stage alone. It shall become my undoing, if I'm not careful.." He had no way of knowing the accuracy of the statement.

"There are to be no plays performed at Hogwarts, Tom, not since the disaster of _The Fountain of Fair Fortune_!" Dumbledore called from somewhere in the hall. "Dippet's last wishes outlined those rules quite clearly, and I have no choice but to honor them."

_How much did he hear_? Riddle wondered, as he called back, "As omniscient as ever, Dumbledore."

"No," the old man said, voice quite close to the doorway, "Just passing through the area. Have a good night, Tom."

"I intend to."

Riddle seethed. This had gone on long enough. Nearly a week after the argument, Minerva still hadn't returned to her senses. Perhaps he had no choice but to try a different approach.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Ohohoho. Real quick- I realized I didn't explain my absence in the previous chapter. So.. I had AP exams, I graduated high school, I had cousins over during vacation, I had college enrollment, and then I started working. Basically, I've been soooo busy. **

**Now, for this chapter. Two things. 1.) How many of you noticed that "Hurst" is one letter away from "Hurt"? 2.) I sense a makeout- oops, meant to say make _up_ -chapter ahead of us! ;) Share your thoughts! How many of you are glad to see that Lowther is back? How many of you caught that Riddle referred to the class as "dark arts" and left off the bit about "defense"? Heheheheh. Those who noticed get cookies. If you didn't notice, review for me and get a cookie anyway!**


	26. Next Time, We're Doing it in My Room

Ohmygod, you guys. I felt like such crap yesterday. I had a fever, and my head felt like it would explode, and my eyes hurt, and I just felt awful, and then I had to write this scene which gave me an even _bigger_ headache and gah. It's been a rough week. So I hope you see what a labor of love this chapter is, even if it's a bit short. I present it to you, my dear readers! Happy weekend!

* * *

><p>Minerva felt as though she was languishing in her room. After a week of locking herself in her office and bedroom, she had burned through the vast majority of her work. She had retreated to her room again with the pretense of grading her fourth years' newly turned in essays, but she didn't think another evening devoid of human contact would be bearable. She had begged Pomona to do her grading in her room, but her friend was nowhere in sight. As it neared eleven at night, she finally heard a knock at the door.<p>

She pushed aside her paperwork and reached for her robe, calling "Just a minute!" as she did so. It was about _time_ Pomona showed up, she thought, frowning. She had wanted some good conversation for a while now, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was not a viable option at the moment. It came as a surprise, then, when she opened the door and beheld Tom Riddle. "What are _you_ doing here?" she snapped.

"Ignoring that," he said in a controlled voice, sitting on her bed and watching her.

"I think I told you I'm not speaking to you," Minerva said with finality. She returned to her desk to resume her work, but she was aware of Tom coming to stand behind her and lean over to see what she was doing.

"I heard you," he said quietly. He craned his neck. "Grading essays?"

_Shut up._

"Oh, teaching them about Animagi?"

_Go away._

"Hey, that one spelled 'animagus' wrong."

_I can see that._

He poked her. "Aren't you going to correct that? I dock points for idiotic spelling errors like that."

_Your opinions aren't important to me._

"Well, I suppose you should teach your class however you see fit. You've more than proven yourself as a teacher."

_Cut the flattery._

He put a finger under her chin and turned her face towards him. "Have you gone deaf?"

"Will you STOP that?" she burst out, slapping his hand away. "And why isn't Pomona here?"

"Oh, so you _could_ hear me," he said, smiling. "I was starting to worry."

"Tom, unless you have a certain something to say to me I don't want to hear it." She turned back to her papers.

She heard him heave a sigh. "This is difficult for me to say..." he began. "But I'm sorry."

"For?"

"For presuming to throw my weight around just because I'm a teacher. For refusing to see reason when you shoved it right under my nose. And for good measure, anything I've done and am liable to do to upset you, in the past and in the immediate future." Tom turned her face towards his again. "Well, ma minette? Will you accept my apology?"

She smiled. "Of course. Assuming you didn't kill Pomona."

Tom chuckled. "No, I just asked her not to go, and explained that I needed to make amends. I trust you won't ignore me any more now?"

"Certainly not, darling." Her smile turned mischievous. "Tom, hearing _you_ of all people admit that you were wrong is so rare... it feels like quite the triumph for me to have coaxed an apology out of you."

Tom rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."

"I'd like to hear that again."

He arched a brow. "You have no idea?"

"No, I'd like to hear you apologize again."

"Don't push it, Minerva."

"No, really," she said, smirking. "I feel as though we've been feuding -not in a bad way, of course- and I've come out on top for once. I intend to milk it for all it's worth." She caressed his cheek. "Say you're sorry again, Tom."

"I told you not to push it."

"I told _you_-"

He cut her words off roughly, pulling her up from her chair by her wrists and kissing her heatedly. "For the last time," he growled, "do...not...push it."

Minerva was taken aback at his sudden behavior, torn between excitement and fear at his advance. It crossed her mind that regardless of how much she trusted him, and how much he respected her, with Tom, there were perhaps some areas that were not to be crossed. He didn't take kindly to her goading, something she should have foreseen, knowing his pride and his temperment. She had spoken without thinking, and sought to remedy it, kissing him back just as fiercely. She could feel his hands through the fabric of her nightdress when he slipped them inside her dressing gown, and was hyperaware of him twisting the fabric up, pulling the hem to the tops of her thighs. Ordinarily she would have rebuffed him; she would have pointed out that they were on campus and required to remain professional. But this night she was tired of being reserved, tired of being demure, and tired of cutting things off before they ever really began. So instead she pushed herself against him, arms hooked around his neck, her lips pressed to his ear. "Be more explicit, Tom," she whispered, nipping between words. "Don't...push...what?" His breathing was as ragged as her own.

"Your luck," he said, voice low as he wrenched her head back, looking her in the eyes. "Yes, I apologized to you. Don't give me reason to do so again," he added, and before she could decide if it was a warning or just wordplay he had crushed his lips to hers, kissing her open-mouthed in a way he never had before. She felt his spare hand travel down her back, his touch firm and unyielding. Suddenly he stopped, holding her shoulders and pulling back.

"Yes?" she asked, bemused.

"You wore tartan on purpose to vex me."

Minerva laughed, not caring if she was ruining the moment, slipping it down her shoulders. "Ah. You want me to take it off."

"That would be preferable, yes."

Hardly able to believe what she was doing, she reached for her wand and flicked it, undoing his buttons. "I think that's your job, Tom." A look passed between them; in a moment she was backed against the wall and Tom was kissing her again, his shirt on the floor with her robe. Never before had it felt as though she and Tom could reach a mutual consensus on how far to take things. A factor that always pushed her to call things off would be thoughts of potential regret that crossed her mind more than once. She wasn't entirely free of those suppositions tonight, even with his name on her lips and even when she gasped that he continue. But a sort of abandon had overtaken her, and she found it easy to push the doubts aside and enjoy him, finding a rythm to their movements and bodies. With her apparent willingness to continue, continue he did, hissing assurances to her of his affection and attraction. It didn't bother her when his attentions bordered on violence, when his kisses became more fierce than tender, when his long fingers ceased their caresses and instead bruised her pale skin. She knew her own fingernails had left their marks when she clung to him, dragging her nails down his back, and that her kisses would ensure that his collar stayed buttoned for at least the week until the bruises healed. Still, she wasted no time in pointing out to him when he went a bit too far for her satisfaction. "Careful, Tom, with my face... I don't want marks that are visible on a regular basis."

"You'll get your second apology of the night, Minerva," he murmured in reply, his smile wicked. "From now on I'll be sure to only mark what no one else will see."

o0o [Since I'd bring shame to the word smut just think of the smuttiest smut you can imagine between Tom and Minerva. Done? Okay, now keep reading.]

It was fortunate that it was a Friday the following morning, and therefore no classes first thing, Minerva found herself thinking as she stretched, stopping when she felt Tom's arms around her waist. "Morning," she said, rolling over to face him, combing her hand through his hair and pushing it off his face. "I think I like seeing you like this, Tom. When you're all buttoned up you're less... not desirable, but less..."

"Less what?" he said, hand slithering up her thigh. "Don't put your foot in your mouth, now. I'd hate to have to punish you after such a night."

"You liar," she said as she curled against his chest. "You'd damn well enjoy it and we both know it."

Wordlessly he cupped her face in his hand, kissing her until she forcibly pushed him away. "I wonder," he said in all seriousness, "if it's possible to suffocate someone with a kiss."

"What goes on in that devious mind of yours, Tom?" she asked, walking her fingers down his chest. "Don't try and find out with me."

"Ah, so you'd rather I find out with someone else." He smirked when her expression turned petulant, pulling her body flush against his. "Don't /worry/, ma minette. You're the only one."

"Is that what you tell all the girls, Mr. Riddle?" she teased, snuggling close. "You certainly have a way of guilding your words and making a woman think you mean every bit of it."

"You think I'm not always sincere?" He held her gaze a moment and laughed. "You know me too well. I'll have to do away with you now, to protect my secret."

"Hardly a secret," she replied. She glanced at the clock. "Argh, we slept in."

"Obviously," Tom said. "Good thing I don't have a class right now..."

"Get _up_, you lazy ass," she insisted, slapping his shoulder. "Maybe you've forgotten but _I_ still have a class to teach."

"You can be late for once in your life, Minerva." He wrapped his arms around her waist more tightly, his cheek pressed to hers. Minera felt her eyes fall half shut and she smiled when he pulled her still closer, only to burst into giggles without warning.

"What is wrong with you?" Tom muttered. "Can't we just..."

"No, no, it's nothing," she said, bringing one of his hands to her lips. "It's just your cheek. I'm not used to it... time for you to shave."

He raised his eyebrows. "And this is funny how?"

"It just tickles," she explained, squealing when he rubbed his cheek against her experimentaly.

"And your hair doesn't?" He worked his hands into it, pulling her head back.

"Does it?" she asked honestly. "I wouldn't know."

"Oh, it does," he said, "and it gets everywhere too." He twisted his hands further into her hair, unruly from the night's activities, to illustrate.

She put her arms around his shoulders pulling him down partially on top of her. "So what shall I do about this terrible dilemma?" she quipped. "Want me to cut it?" She let go of him with one arm, holding her hair at a point just past her collarbone. "I could cut to about this length."

"I like your hair the way it is," he insisted. "You know that."

She pulled his face down for another kiss. "Now I really need to get up."

Tom groaned, burying his face in her hair. "You still have thirty minutes."

"I know. If I start now I'll probably just barely make it." She idly traced the lines of definition on his back muscles, her fingernails barely grazing his skin. "You'd better move, though... this is deliciously comfortable and the longer I stay like this the less I'll want to get up."

"Why do you need so long to get ready?" Tom mumbled, one arm still across her.

"Um, maybe I don't want to show up in front of my students looking as though I literally rolled out of bed," Minerva pointed out. "Some things are meant to stay private, you know." She wriggled out from underneath him, slipping on her robe quickly before dashing into the bathroom, not thinking to question the ridiculousness of the stereotypical sudden desire for modesty in such situations.

"I'm the one that has a walk of shame ahead of me," he retorted, rolling onto his back. "Next time we're doing this in my room."

She poked her head out of the bathroom door. "What makes you think there'll be a next time?" she teased. "Don't force me to ignore you again!"

Tom grimaced, and she thought for a second she saw his eyes flash red. "I wouldn't dream of it."

o0o

The 'walk of shame' had been brief, and almost without incident. Riddle was dismayed when he saw Slughorn headed towards him, though. He considered an alibi of some sort, but decided against it, feeling that to appear defensive would be exactly the sort of thing Slughorn would want to see. Either way he would lose; he knew he looked disheveled, and the comparatively late hour would be more than enough circumstantial evidence to convict Riddle of his crime: a roll in the hay. He frowned. What did it matter what Slughorn thought? The man was a nonentity-

"Good morning, Tom!" Slughorn said, picking up his pace once he noticed him. "I missed you at breakfast today... matter of fact I missed Minerva as well." He paused, and Riddle worked to keep his face impassive, as it was only a matter of time before two and two were put together. As if on cue, Slughorn's face was split by a huge grin. "Have a good night's rest?"

"Perfectly, thank you," Riddle said, one eyebrow raised. "And yourself?"

"Certainly, certainly," Slughorn chortled, "more than _some_ people's, at least. Have you and Minerva -ah, sorted out your differences? I noticed you two were avoiding one another."

"Noticed, or trying to see things where nothing existed?" Riddle said snidely. "Things are fine between us."

"I can see that," Slughorn said mischievously, taking in Riddle's appearance. "I take it she's up and teaching her first class of the day?"

"Why would she be doing anything else?"

"Well, dear boy..." Slughorn's ever expressive eyebrows performed another short routine that made Riddle want to curse them off his face. "I imagine she'd be a bit.. _worn out_ after... certain events."

Riddle could only stare. "What are you insinuating?"

Slughorn winked. "Forget I said anything."

"That's going to be extremely hard to do now."

"Don't trouble yourself about it, dear boy," Slughorn said, "but I do recommend that you hurry along and make yourself decent! It's quite all right if I happen accross you like this, but imagine if someone else would- not everyone refrains from gossip like me."

The blatant delusion and hypocrisy of the statement stunned even Riddle into silence, and with a bit of difficulty, he managed a cold "I'll see you later, Professor," to Slughorn and escaped into his room. After a much needed shower -devoid of citrus-scented soaps- and a change of clothes, he considered taking advantage of his small window of free time to attend to the basilisk, likely hungry from a week without food.

And yes, to give it an answer to the physical intimacy question.

Headed towards the grounds, his mind turned to last night's activities more than once. Minerva had enraged him. The fact that she had won out, and had all but forced him to apologize to get himself back into her good books was galling enough, but her smug little smile and infuriating look of superiority was enough to drive anyone mad. To think that she had the audacity to demand a second apology, just to relish hearing him lower himself to that degree! He had meant to disguise brutality with passion when he had kissed her the first time that night, though he hadn't planned on going as far as they had. It wasn't often that he took a lover, namely because of the multiple responsibilities -the majority self imposed- that he had to shoulder. Minerva's sudden willingness surprised him, though. In the months since the beginning of their relationship she had allowed him very little room to progress past a certain point, yet last night she had all but insisted that he continue.

More than that, Minerva's actions in the bedroom had surprised him to an extent as well. He had already known that she was fiercely independent, even bossy, but he had expected her to be more demure in matters of intimacy. He had expected her to shrink from his more violent favors -not that he cared, because she deserved every bit of it for her flippancy. Instead she had returned them, perhaps with less intensity but returned them all the same. And her authority was strangely present even then; he realized that despite relinquishing control to him a number of times, she still had no hesitation in pointing out what she wanted. Riddle didn't want to admit it, but he had lost himself a little when he held her against the wall, half-dressed. The primal, physical side of the act had its appeal, but he didn't like the distraction it caused in his well-ordered mind. Minerva herself could be intoxicating, though at times she clouded his thoughts far more than he deemed necessary. He wasn't averse to giving in to the baser urges... but he'd have to exercise more control over himself. One thing was certain, though: she'd have a hard time reporting to Dumbledore now. A cruel smile lent his appearance a diabolical air as he imagined what Dumbledore would do if he learned what his prized lieutenant had done. What was that saying? 'In bed with the devil.' Yes, Minerva would give the devil his due many more times in the future, and should the old man discover it, there would be little he could do to stop it.

He neared the staircase that would take him to the double doors leading to the grounds when he stopped short. "My god..." he said, shocked into silence as he stared.

"Hey Tom," Minerva called, walking toward him as she left her first class, "all the staff's getting drinks after lunch, want to join- _oh my God_!" She ran the last few steps to him, and he put his arm around her, his face darkening as they continued to stare. Oh, this was bad.

Eric Hurst was lying at the bottom of the staircase, bruised and bloody, his body twisted unnaturally. Riddle could tell by the appearance of the wounds and by the feel of the air that the injuries were of magical infliction, and they bore a familiarity that simultaneously worried him and angered him.

"Tom, we have to-" Minerva burst out, her green eyes huge. "Hurry-"

"I know," he said quietly, and he hurried down the stairs, holding her to his chest. The next few minutes passed in a blur. The school healer was summoned, Dumbledore was notified, and Riddle was significantly late to his first class. The class was unusually quiet; apparently news traveled quickly with teenagers, and they asked him in timid, quiet voices what exactly had transpired. Minerva had accompanied Dumbledore to the hospital wing, and she had returned to him after his class ended, putting her face against his cheek wordlessly. "Are you all right?" he asked softly.

"I'm fine," she said, voice steady and eyes dry. "Hurst will be awake soon, we can go and see him. Tom," she added, angling his head so he was looking her in the eyes, "you didn't have anything...?"

"Minerva, those wounds weren't fresh," he said slowly, hiding his disgust at her question. "It would've happened early in the morning, or late last night. How could I-"

"You're right, of course you're right. I'm sorry," she said, kissing his cheek. "Who would..._why_ would anyone..."

"I don't know," Riddle said, stroking her back.

"Did Albus say anything to you?"

"He wants to see me in his office whenever I have time."

Minerva bit her lip. "Do you want me to come with you? I'll vouch for you."

"There's no need, Minerva." He frowned thoughtfully when Fawkes flew past his window. "I think I have a pretty good idea of what to do..."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Heyyyyyyyy there! Do I hear a "yes" to more shipper!Slughorn in the very near future? **

**GAH. THIS WAS SO EFFING HARD TO WRITE. LIKE WTF. WHY DID I INFLICT THIS ON MYSELF? Okay, rant aside see if you can guess where this is going! Also, I think it's interesting to examine how good old Voldy feels about Minerva. For some reason I can see him confused about his feelings and unwilling to admit that he is. You can see that he's a bit defensive in a few choice areas... idk. They are fun to play with. There will be more scenes of this nature to follow, but again don't expect anything more than this. Like I said, I lack the ability to write more than this... and I want to keep it T-rated. Ahem. I made it awkward. Also, that bit with Hurst will be cleared up. So.. yeah. Um... review?**


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